In a photograph of a crowd 
my head seventh from the edge, 
or maybe four in from the left 
or twenty up from the bottom;

my head, I can't tell which, 
no more the one and only, but already one of many, 
and resembling the resembling, 
neither clearly male nor female;

the marks it flashes at me 
are not distinguishing marks;

maybe The Spirit of Time sees it, 
but he's not looking at it closely;

my demographic head 
which consumes steel and cables 
so easily, so globally,

unashamed it's nothing special, 
undespairing it's replaceable;

as if it weren't mine 
in its own way on its own;

as if a cemetery were 
dug up, full of nameless skulls 
of high preservability 
despite their mortality;

as if it were already there, 
my any head, someone else's–

where its recollections, if any, 
would stretch deep into the future.


Translated from the Polish by Joanna Trzeciak