Going to visit my mother is like starting in on a piece by
                                                                                Beckett.
   You know that sense of sinking through crust,
         the low black oh no of the little room
            with walls too close, so knowable.
Clink and slow fade of toys that belong in memory
   but wrongly appear here, vagrant and suffocated
         on a page of pain,
            Worse
         she says when I ask.
   And as in Beckett some high humor grazes