Piotr Florczyk

To Love Without a Net, 2008. Photomontage. Liz Huston.

POOR TRANSLATION

“Le Pain Quotidien”—a tasty bit

          picked up on a morning jog through Westwood.

 

My daughter was born in the hospital up the street—

 

          how much                        joy

          how much                        pain

          should I still feel?

 

Weeks later I’ve forsworn all carbs, including my favorite:

a sourdough baguette with burnt crust.

 

          God

          better

          remember

 

what I told him that October day, when I watched the scalpel

          getting passed from hand to hand.

FIRE SEASON

 

Mid-morning, mid-June.

The sound of

saws and shears

outside our windows.

The tree-huggers—

the new breed paid by the hour

in cash rather than birdsong

and view—

have arrived. “More

light,”

the neighbors

have demanded—

that’s why they’re here,

swinging from the crowns

of the myrtles,

with no rain

to stop them.

Soon they’ll tower

over the rooftops.

 “Snip, snip”—

our condos go up in value.

I’ve always voted

for “More shade,”

to tell you the truth—

the unruly constellation

of dead leaves

on glass.