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You Doctor Martin
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness.
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the thrust
And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
There are no knives
for cutting your throat.
moccasins all morning.
At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work.
Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
All over I grow most tall
in the best ward.
Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest.
Out in the hall
the intercom pages you.
You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone.
I am queen of all my sins
Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful.
Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
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