Pink blossomed again,

white, pincushion hard, upright as ever;

a cracked jug full of dreams,

sleeping in unmaterial form.

Ward, I wish I could endure it

for your sake.

I resolve not to imagine anything;

keep my thoughts shut up in starched handkerchiefs,

all the time ironing right around them.

Do you remember what happened this day last year?

I can’t think of anything special.

The days turn unopposed,

but one can live down troubles.

I can’t.

Sorry, not sorry.

It’s only twilight

and I already want to cut you.

The ghost of a little murdered soul creeps

behind you, lays its cold fingers

on your hardened heart

and grabs.

All that wicked nonsense of imagination

I don’t believe in daylight

but after dark, it’s different.

That is when ghosts walk;

when respectable people

can unbury their dreams.

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