You can’t go on living without the art of substitution.
Mud replaces water and so the forest grows.
To substitute for yourself means to stop living:
once again I lose my love, once again I buy a dog.
In this way I’ve had more than one dog
and more than one house, not to speak of umbrellas.
How can I live; will I find another love?
If only each thing could substitute for itself.
The new dog’s eyes are glued to me
as if it weren’t possible to part or abandon.
I have a friend who waited 24 hours for her lover’s train
until the world counted its way onward.
Houses are loyal to themselves until they crumble.
Now I understand why those who believe in lies die for their religion.
Whoever thinks like that will never improve on the art of substitution.
I tell myself: put your foot forward into the impossible.