“And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself”

“You, Doctor Martin, walkfrom breakfast to madness. Late August,I speed through the antiseptic tunnelwhere the moving dead still talkof pushing their bones against the thrustof cure. And I am queen of this summer hotelor the laughing bee on a stalkof death. We stand in brokenlines and wait while they unlockthe doors and count us at the frozen gatesof dinner. The shibboleth is spokenand we move to gravy in our smockof smiles. We chew in rows, our platesscratch and whine like chalkin school. There are no knivesfor cutting your throat. I makemoccasins all morning. At first my handskept empty, unraveled for the livesthey used to work. Now I learn to takethem back, each angry finger that demandsI mend what another will breaktomorrow. Of course, I love you;you lean above the plastic sky,god of our block, prince of all the foxes.The breaking crowns are newthat Jack wore. Your third eyemoves among us and lights the separate boxeswhere we sleep or cry.What large children we arehere. All over I grow most tallin the best ward. Your business is people,you call at the madhouse, an oraculareye in our nest. Out in the hallthe intercom pages you. You twist in the pullof the foxy children who falllike floods of life in frost.And we are magic talking to itself,noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sinsforgotten. Am I still lost?Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,counting this row and that row of moccasinswaiting on the silent shelf.”

“Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,Counting this row and that row of moccasinsWaiting on the silent shelf.”

“I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.”

“and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,and I grew, I grew,I wore rubies and bought tomatoesand now, in my middle age,about nineteen in the head I'd say,I am rowing, I am rowingthough the oarlocks stick and are rustyand the sea blinks and rollslike a worried eyebal,but I am rowing, I am rowing,though the wind pushes me backand I know that that island will not be perfect,it will have the flaws of life,the absurdities of the dinner table,but there will be a doorand I will open itand I will get rid of the rat insdie me,the gnawing pestilential rat.God will take it with his two handsand embrace it”

“Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far ...”

“She suffers according to the digitsof my hate. I hear the filamentsof alabaster. I would lie downwith them and lift my madnessoff like a wig. I would lieoutside in a room of wooland let the snow cover me.Paris white or flake whiteor argentine, all in the washbasinof my mouth, calling “Oh.”I am empty. I am witless.Death is here. There is noother settlement.”