The doorbell so
Lost
        in the wall, the telephone

as my own noise’s, no
one’s,
listening,

You
and
me

I seldom remember what
someone was wearing
what color their eyes are

Peaceful room,
peaceful blanket,
large pillow, cold,

I don’t want to write the great American novel
And set people walking across the pages of a book
Doing things like sweating on page 4, praying on page 45,

I used to believe that nobody was really crazy.
That people were all basically good. Sometimes it was
A question of coaxing them, a little, but in the end

The Knight of the Trepan is Christ, who lives in me and who passes through my skull day after day like a needle. He wears leather breeches that resemble English silks. His face is encased in a helmet that shows only two glass eyes and a mouth with moving wet lips.

For a while I shall still be leaving.
Looking back at you as you slip away
Into the magic islands of the mind.

Coming into eighty
I slow my ship down
For a safe landing.