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ida sieciechowicz
from 'amplified insides, a soundtrack', trans. sarah luczaj



You need to stand. Up. Amongst other things. For instance. The forest base. Slightly moist must. Wind breaks in the branches. The river’s cut off. The nailed bridge hangs. Children fall asleep like truck drivers. At the edge of the road. The train goes on. Someone’s hair touches the bars. How high is freezing? How low does god go? A woman holds a watering can in an abandoned hand. Long dusk soaks all the way along the stem. The sacks are probably hidden. The murdered don’t remember. Those who kill would rather not. I rip the tiny fishbones from the meat, it takes years. Wilted nooses go pale. Daybreak’s skint, smokes a roll-up. Flu winter. February snow. A crushed huddle of people walk into the glassed cabin. There is no smoke. It moves.



Furthermore. The waters are spilled anyway. The night falls without

too many scruples. On the land with the tree. Clearly scattered over.

Plaster fires up in the astygmatic cornea. Unknown faces

appear. In me. Under a shining sign. All day long I poke

at space. The joints pull alongside. Pipelike constructions

swell under. Independently of. God doesn’t change much. Man

stands under his own shadow. The ecological dust shakes down. Over

the dug up stitches. Stones fall asleep, when time diverges.

What’s burning beneath his heels? At the crowded bonfires. Cool. They travel

in sealed wagons of cooled urns. In contrast

to those heavy tons, emptiness is an intimate experience. I pick

flowers on the dug-up lawn. It probably doesn’t matter that it’s rained

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