It's the tenth of November

The body is ambling toward 75

All new days

(this day, the as of now six and half hour long tenth day of the month)

start to feel gradually more unlikely,

like extra dividends

and my – before it appeared -

implausible cohabitation with Anna in Northbothnia,

on a farm with horses, bordering the wilderness,

feels like an unreal grace

where night trains go across the marshes

It's the tenth of November,

the cat calls me from down the staircase,

and a future day, the name of which I don't know,

is the front door of this life,

through which I will be thrown out,

like a cat who's about to vomit