Translated from Polish by Mira Rosenthal
A throw of dice can easily upend one’s luck, just toss them long enough, as you know, right? You know about such things. Perhaps an epoch is not quite long enough, nor one whole life,
for pattern, order to emerge from numbers. Better to look from far away. There’s isolated shards of the world still lying here well after Thursday’s explosion, when at last the ancient frame
cracked and the mirror broke into so many fragments that now the face can’t create its arrangement of lines, its twists of tenderness — a puzzle of four elements now infused with a fifth, darkness.
And I sat throughout the night, with the song of cars outside, and tried to piece together the dust, flashes, bits into a new reflection, but time had already dispersed the original features.