***
To Marcin Kołpanowicz
The shadow of my hand lifts the shadow of a glass.
The shadow of my head drinks.
The shadow in the glass diminishes.
The shadow of my hand hangs over the shadow of the table
with the shadow of a pencil in the narrow shadows of fingers.
Shadows -
silent precipices behind things' backs.
Shadows -
black threnodies of those departing toward the light,
black trails of those retiring from the light.