The translator drives
in the dark,
looking for the mandala,

mute husks
         of dead dreams
left by toll roadsides,

salting damp canvas.
Telepathic crypts;
vestigial flickers.

Cut blistered fingers
glue and memory.


wasn't sure which of them was doing the other:
the writer or the writing.

The words, 'the world is not a binary opposition'
stopped saying the writer and followed her
to the machine which typed into her the ingredients:
the wineglass flung the writer to the floor,
shard-shattering her, while the stemmed receptacle
swilled her round before gulping her down the throat,
watching the melted bottled pour the writer into a dirty glass,
and greasy fingerprints carefully remove her from the bulb;

dark ink was slowly sucking up the writer into the split nib
and the pencilās rubber, opposite, end was erasing her
rhythmically, breathing her relics off the ledge
whilst the page kept moving beneath the pencil -
a coffin scratching trapped fingernails, lightly, lightly,
remembering again and again the salt mill's later gesture
carrying the writer from sentence to plate,
grinding her all over her unwritten words.


In fragments and mystery they gathered, murmuring
of a fissure breaking in and out, tearing eclipses.
Dice clack in the ludo-cup; deciduous hide peels back.

The name I repeat I repeat, the name I repeat
took me close to the light, so close
it singed the edges of my dream -
twisting wire into a silhouette and pinbursting eyes.

On pavements beige they gathered, whispering
of consuming chronology, alphabets and analogies of shapes.
The dice are already loaded yet we rattle-mix with fingers crossed.

The percussionist hurriedly moves about:
drums, glockenspiel (with two different kinds of stick), triangle.
Three notes in quick succession; trombone and violin. Gong.
Adagio. Moderato. Fonts of music dance.
Consciousness was the art of connecting, once.

In dreams and days they gathered, singing
of the game of transparency untuning the earth
in mirth and music, surrendering to the new cuneiform.

We know this draught of time's rude hand and hymnody
because we have been a conversation,
disclosing ourselves to a realm where the words were
suddenly spoken, there, free in the air
as if they were solid metal blocks of print,
then bronze pagodas, then guardians, then cutlery,
then water and lung and drowning.

This must be read in the dark, next the speech burned.
This must be read to no audience.

You turn the door, the key remains.
You turn the locks, you turn the wall,
You turn the handle, the key remains.

    © Malgorzata Kitowski 2004