My mind a rock,
No fingers to grip, no tongue,
My god the iron lung
That loves me, pumps
My two
Dust bags in and out,
Will not
Let me
relapse
While the
day outside glides by like ticker tape. The night brings violets,
Tapestries of eyes,
Lights,
The soft
anonymousTalkers: 'You all right?'
The starched, inaccessible breast.
Dead egg, I lie
Whole
On a whole world I cannot touch,
At the white, tight
Drum of my
sleeping couch
Photographs
visit me-My wife, dead and flat, in 1920 furs,
Mouth full of pearls,
Two girls
As flat as
she, who whisper 'We're your daughters.' The still waters
Wrap my lips,
Eyes, nose
and ears,
A clearCellophane I cannot crack.
On my bare back
I smile, a
buddha, all
Wants,
desireFalling from me like rings
Hugging their lights.
The claw
Of the
magnolia,Drunk on its own scents,
Asks nothing of life.