The whole world is our hospital,

Endowed by the ruined millionaire,

In which, if we do well, we shall

Die of the absolute paternal care.

  Antiseptic entrails. Like walking

Up and down inside onesself

In blankness—

  The poem, diving or snowing backward into ritual, shuffling

Ahead, in the whole earth, over the endless earth, tired,

Wearing old men’s dark lenses, wearing grey sweaters,

In torn slippers, and

In the clumsy tongue,

Torn—

  Here housed, the inhabitants, invisible spirits, pace

Children, when on etouches them in their sleep

Hunch and shift over.

Frogs—     Lilies—

  Night coughing, close the door, turn the vaporizer

On the room, close the curtains, touch the shoulder,

Close the door.