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I left the protection

of my plan & my

thinking. I let my self

go. Is this hope I


thought. Light fled.

We have a world

to lose I thought.

Summer fled. The


waters rose. How

do I organize

myself now. How do I

find sufficient


ignorance. How do I


not summarize

anything. Is this mystery,

this deceptively complex

lack of design. No sum


towards which to strive. No

general truth. None.

How do I go without

accuracy. How do I


go without industry.

No north or

south. What shall I

disrupt. How find


the narrowness. The

rare ineffable

narrowness. Far below

numbers. Through and behind


alphabets and their hiving, swarming – here,

these letters. I

lean forward

looking for the anecdote


which leads me closer to


the nothing. I do not


lack ideas. I do not

fail to see

how pieces

fall together. I do


not fail to be

a human companion

to the human. I am

not skeptical. I


am seeking to enter the in-

conspicuous. Where the stems

of the willows

bend when I


step. There is dream in

them I think. There is

desire. From this height

above the ground I see


too much. I need

to get down, need to

get out of the reach

of the horizon. Are


these tracks from this

summer or how many years

ago. Are these

grasses come again now,


new. This is being

remembered. Even as it

erases itself it does not

erase the thing


it was. And gave you.


No one can tell the whole story. 

On the Last Day

Jorie Graham

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translated from the Polish written by
Tomasz Różycki