Lamplight on papers left from long ago,

and all around, night filling up inside

the shelves. He's sure that he could melt and flow

and lose himself in ancestors who've died

with honor reading on would win him, though

in fact, they were absorbing all his pride.

Along the wall, the empty chairs went hard

with arrogance, while purebred self-regard

drowsed in the big plush furniture. The tall

night fed the hall clock hopper; down it poured,

till from that golden mill, time ran down toward

him, all ground up exceeding small.

Febrile amidst those souls, he left time there;

as if he'd rip away their burial clothes,

he tore off other times, till he

was whispering. How distant could things be?

He praised one letter writer (“How he knows

me! This was meant to reach me in time's post!”).

And then he slapped the armrests of his chair.

The mirror, though, was infinitely deep,

releasing both a window and a drape,

for, almost ready, there it stood: the ghost.

Der Einsame

Nein: ein Turm soll sein aus meinem Herzen

und ich selbst an seinen Rand gestellt:

wo sonst nichts mehr ist, noch einmal Schmerzen

und Unsäglichkeit, noch einmal Welt.

Noch ein Ding allein im Übergroßen,

welches dunkel wird und wieder licht,

noch ein letztes, sehnendes Gesicht,

in das Nie-zu-Stillende verstoßen,

noch ein äußerstes Gesicht aus Stein,

willig seinen inneren Gewichten,

das die Weiten, die es still vernichten,

zwingen, immer seliger zu sein.