You can’t think of time,
when you lie down in sheets which are not yours,
or anybody else’s,
as each time it opens
as a blank sheet,
always on a new page.
And so —
hotel people have no past,
do not miss,
do not cry,
do not age.
Regardless of how narrow a corridor is,
they do not pass through one another.
No one belongs to anybody.
A breakfast table lavish with loneliness,
grunted greetings, quickly curses,
never to remember one another,
to pass in the streets, unrecognized,
walls’ night’s delicacy undeceived.
In a hotel, only poems that grow
have the longevity of soap bubbles,
as small as minibar bottles
and as interrupted as receptionists’ smiles.
Hotel clocks say
that if Now darkens here,
then it is still Yesterday in a different city,
and in another one, Tomorrow hurries up for work.
What sense does it make then
to turn around in an unknown dimension,
where nobody shoots you in the temple?
Translated by Paweł Sakowski