As far as mental anguish goes,
the old painters were no fools.
They understood how the mind,

Either they just die
or they get sick and die of the sickness
or they get sick, recover, then die of something else,
or they get sick, appear to recover,
then die of the same thing,
the sickness coming back 
to take another bite out of you
in the forest of your final hours.

The whole idea of it makes me feel 
like I’m coming down with something, 
something worse than any stomach ache 

I am trying to imagine that I am someone else,
a grocer, an aerialist,
a young viola player who travels
around the country in a bus full of musicians,

It is possible to be struck by a meteor
or a single-engine plane
while reading in a chair at home.

If you wanted flesh you had to wait
till second grade, for the box
of 64. Until then you outlined us

The dog is seated by the victrola
listening, head cocked

to the voice of his master

Everything is fine—
the first bits of sun are on
the yellow flowers behind the low wall,

This is the only reality, wrote Sartre,
this public garden and its gravel paths
dappled with sunlight

The one resting now on a plant stem
somewhere deep in the vine-hung
interior of South America