I have a photograph of Kafka
in that dear little derby of his
that I love so much,
as I love him, it occurs to me.
And how strange, I can't help thinking,
to feel so much for somebody
I never met—more
than for people I know,
I thought all of them were important, every one,
though what I meant was that I was important,
my feelings for them, my feelings.
Over a period of years they have emerged
from the cloud of passion and anguish.
I have begun to see their faces,