Do you mock me, Musil?
I have not reach you, yet
—nor you me. Across the bedroom, we have whiled

Wind shrieked a desperate warning. Then the train—shaft
of iron!—running right through me! I slammed the book on
my finger.

This is one of several works paying homage to your memory.
In prior compositions, a chain of association began and ended
at your face. Here your negligent features are just a link—just

I am doubting the existence of Schubert. 
Pressed, I used to admit this much:
Schubert was there,