The First Polish Cosmonaut

Whenever I walk underneath an artificial moon
and there is nothing to be found in the trees
branches like a dancer’s bruised knees
uncovered to expose a black and blue like the sky
I feel a yearning for the flashing advertisments
violating the darkness
and the sparks of the tram cars
the only cilivised lightning
I desire, I feel like a mongrel downwind
on a tightrope leash

It is memory not stilled by the present
it is seeing gymnastic workers
rebuilding the old
it is the smell of the buses
bridges to another existence
it is a place once known
by someone who was
a foreigner in his homeland

(i remember seeing a sailor
on a train
my father was once a sailor
he was not on the train
but we met anyway
after 14 years the words
still could not hide the doubt
i thought my father was taller
i have sisters that do not know me
i am an only child
blood is wider than the sea
but still i do not know
who i am)

It is a remembrance of
dung cooling by a stream
where a little boy watched
a hefer with calf drown

It is the rustle of pine trees
dancing in the shadows of a silent tune
it is memory of a stream swollen
by a night of electric visions
that warned of the sounds to follow
it is the remembrance of a little boy
watching water
wash away not sins
but the only way to get to
the other side

As I walk underneath an artificial moon
I think of the first Polish cosmonaut
he was a stranger too

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