I stop at a forgotten desk
in the intercity bus station
and edit letters to all those past and present
temples of stone
light a cigarette or a candle
they both smell carnal –
a driver checks tickets
one passenger pushes in
though the cobwebbed rear mirror –
to me, dear dictator, such an atomic day
begins
to look more and more
like happiness, complacency –
I start to believe everybody can see me
holding a timing grenade –
I read again
swallow a handful of earth
for each word.
Maria Stadnicka