Now I understand her poetry:
subconscious strangeness and ecstasy.
My poetry says what it says too reasonably.
I dreamed for ten and a half hours,
fitfully awakening so I remembered all my dreams:
bizarre languages and scenarios not me.
The atheist thinks he is himself; we are not ourselves,
there is a maker—the rest is egotistical delusion.
Sin is endless. Silent in the car with her father:
Was he? Because her mother was horrible?
Or was her mother horrible because he was untrue?
I know less than nothing and do not know
whether the son is the sin or the sin is the son
or even what I am saying. Who’ll have mercy on me?
It was not you that was punishing me.
Pathetic man. I’m sorry.
My poetry said what it said too reasonably.