Past hopes
rise like a ghost.
Immutable.
Indifferent.
Are there no triumphs?
Will dreams perform miracles?
Strindberg said,
“I dream, therefore I exist.”
Stalked by a crazy sage
dressed in weeds,
I scribbled.
The unguarded self
is burdened with weariness
like a dog shitting on the sidewalk.
— Jan Herman
(Indebted to Edward Dahlberg and Francis Bacon.)
