Growing into loneliness, even her bike
won’t help, her shiny mountain bike.
Growing into the emptiness behind the windowsill,
sudden precipice; growing into herself
and from herself, in-between she won’t find anything,
won’t find a willing one to search together –
she doesn’t know that yet, for now she walks
her bike and strokes it, she keeps her head high,
the glitter of the sun in her curls;
growing up to sky,
her shadow, her body remaining behind.
Translated by
Ewa Chrusciel
