I understand in fits and starts;
I write betweentimes when I am not tired;
And a boredom that's bored even of itself drags me ashore;
I've no idea how the future and fate will treat my aimless anguish;
I don't know what impossible southern islands await me shipwrecked;
Or what palm-groves of letters will give me at least a line of verse.
No, I don't know this, that, or anything else . . .
And deep in my soul where I dream what I dreamt,
In the furthest recesses of my soul where I live memory without any reason
(And the past is a natural fog of fake tears),
On the shortcuts and roads in the faraway woods
Where I hypothesized my being,
The last remnants of my ultimate illusion
My dream armies vanquished without ever having been,
My latent cohorts shattered to pieces in God.