Ekelöf is difficultly dead and I am the son of myself.
It is good to talk about old times.
I hear applause there, round the feet of identical twins in a cage.
I feed them a bump of cold chicken and they think we must love each other.
But a bird begets a universe—of men now impotent and living with their mothers.
I understand nothing to win bread for us all.
My father walks through bedrooms to wear me as a coat.