[I found the manuscript for this poem, dated 1981, while going through some old papers. I recall writing it, but I believe this is the first time it has appeared for public consumption.]
First the sounds were voices self-confined Like distant whispers pricking at his mind And he, confused could scarcely reason them Nor question whether source he might consign Then they tolled like death-bells in his head And he thought how right were they who said There are none to cipher, knowing him He would much the better off be dead. Next they came as friends bestowing only good And havened him about as one protecting should With white, sterile walls to explicate his whim And think that he will come to rest in solitude. discovered July 24, 2021
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