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