His greatest ambition had always been to be uneven,
somewhat passé in every step he took,
as he denied himself too much sense
and, at the same time, did his utmost to hang
onto that squeamish consolation of tomorrow,
which he was so afraid of that he kept scratching
for crumbs of comfort in the casual strokes
of the poet’s typewriter. But as he swallowed
a few gutted memoirs that he found in the escritoire,
he realised that there might be nothing there for him
but the silence of the graveyard of dead gods.
hidden pilcrow 