Evening, the edge of the city, a whole day of void, then all at once the late feast: the Sanskrit of dusk that speaks in a glowing tongue of joy. High overhead flow cigarette firelets no one is smoking. Sheets of blazing secrets aflame; what the serenely fading sky tells can't be remembered or even described. So what if Pharaoh's armies pursue you, when eternity is woven through days of the week like moss in the chinks of a cabin?

(Translated from the Polish by Renata Gorczynski, Benjamin Ivry, and C.K. Williams)

There are some evenings - these usually happen when one is not wrestling with the fickleness of desires (one's own and others') - when happiness seems to come as easily as words one is reading from a page at the edge of a river or a bay, or as if it were a small gull wheeling in smaller and smaller circles towards the blue-black waters (a proxy for the body, perhaps). Today was another such evening.