Very much

                        Today, I'd wind my way towards tongues
                        where the past is a very short word
                        written and pronounced the same, keeping a certain
                        consistency during all those backwards tugs.
The same with the past of others As when you tap me on the arm and I turn, the wave is just rolling back and I can study its sharp fingers, lines,
threads of foam which will quicker vanish than let themselves be tangled up. To tie them somehow with those bathing a few feet away is not easy either, more of them since yesterday.
It's easier with that ridge of rocks on the shore which is today risen above. Sit down, this is a very serious ocean, you won't wade any further, don't go in, it says,
it is me who is wooing you.

Explain, translate

                        transport me to the other side
                        of the day, after noon, or else along
                        this narrow balk, which (look down)
                        could appear to be a river
or move from the first to the second half of this page. These are not two capitals in neighbouring states furthest from each other.
Because, say, to really winter the days when in Europe not all the chestnuts are completely diseased and the tongue draws tissue samples
from some prehistoric shape? And maybe it was rhythm? Ah, to become all ears! Because come evening (which sounds like ring-
ring) I waited for your car to arrive, but maybe it was a phone call, and if these phrases do not intersect, if this is how it is to be, then this is how it seems it will be.


                        A joining of fire and earth
                        does not preclude union. Look,
                        see how the elements pass by in order,
                        see how the elements pass by in disorder.
They say: join in pairs things identical, join dots with lines, how to draw stars – practice by tracing arrows.
Meanwhile, here is a carton full of “mix following fire”, down below, in a room “various papers, mostly nothing”. This mixture is itself,
as long as you keep it moving, you might be moved by this stream of words, a window shape which wavers according to the sun's measures
and a naked lightbulb: there is a desk, a low ceiling, glass, a tall barrier, its absence, and more steps, that clay-filled bathtub,
which has its rhyme, that photo, that thermometer, a nut tree, nuts, he, needles prised from walls (because they weren't leaves)
that's not all – sculpting shores, most capably that salt, mountain of solid. After noon it's like burning coals.
Will it turn to ash? And who will gather it in handfuls? Scatter across the ice? Will someone wrap it in a coat? “Fragile. Handle with care”.

Two Snaps from Otwock

                        And so you see, who will believe
                        in reprints, sources?
An acacia grove: this is the house where he once lived. It is no longer here.
An upended pine tree, sand, tyre tracks: and this was to be yours, Mine – you say – and then it's gone from you.