In a room of this rented,
creaky, tired house, a thickbrown six-drawer bureau
stoutly stares at me. Although
made mostly of empty space
(modern physics claims), it
convinces me of its reality.
One drawer contains my socks
and T-shirts: thus have I put
my faith in illusion. Reality
takes me seriously: a bus
will crush if I get in its way.
The weather's cold today.
I retreated to this room to rest,
to read, to think, to scribble.
I think I'm probably a real
illusion to myself. I think I'll nap.
hans ostrom 2025
