Translated from Polish by Mira Rosenthal
Here on the sand just for you I’ve written some words that, by some miracle, survived this plague, gone rampant in the capital again amid the multiplying sums, a novel virus
bred from senselessness that spreads to terms, syntax. How dark the winter! How many working smokestacks our era has! What smoke they make, released into the atmosphere with complete impunity
come four o’clock. The greatest threat to the state of your face is not ash but distraction. You must focus, remember details: a view of mountain peaks mirrored on the eyelid, a bay that cradles
your body like a warm embrace. If you can see me, it means the stove’s still lit. I’m feeding it these moments, one by one. The flame agrees: I am (life, the hiss of chemistry, the whine of applied physics).