In the head, right at the bottom, They quietly registered me. Then I'll live in a dream,
MMXXII
In the head, right at the bottom,
They quietly registered me.
Then I'll live in a dream,
Since they drove me out of waking life.
There at the top of the forest,
At the crossing of worlds,
Floats the many-voicedness
Of birch whales.
There on the far side
Of the Moon, motifs like a play.
And the clouds all alone.
And not a bit of interest.
In the head, as in a trap,
Treacherously tearing —
Thoughts.
They won't be reached from outside:
Field mice in the night
Gnawed them through.