The bow drops.
The baton slips from a hand.
Can one conduct trees?
In the Lacrimosa the violins
rush to set up tall trunks
in an autumn wood.
In the chancel
amber leaves flicker.
Death descends from the pulpit,
a traveling peddler
in rented garb.
The church cracks open like a jewel case.
A vaulting of needles.
Heaven a-clatter with stitching.
Someone is basting in salvation.
These notes. A forest of pins.
Translated from the Polish by Karen Kovacik
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.