He does not wish to think of them Or the vaginas that are not his to put on Or the illusive woman who would be sick with him like a child lying on the sofa in fever and hoping That in the shadows on the wall and the Passing sounds that are concentrated on her mind One will bring deliverance--only placing the deliverance On him and yet loving him for himself Beyond that need. And while unlocking the door of his car He feels that the recreation in life is also a routine: A routine of sharing and parting, And at the end one is grounded and tossed Before the validity of his own Perceptions is resolved. But he is alive, Now; and he will put away his groceries; Read a chapter of his Biblia, A cenotaph of the dead.. maybe a verse; think of forgetting mass and mailing in his tithing And to veg' himself away a few hours Before he would have another night Of throats, lungs and The air of the masses. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - Come (Camp Wonderland for the Retarded, Lake of the Ozarks) Grabbing the already read letter, Slipping out hot and wet From the bare mattress-- Like Sweet Pea's turds Right before His psychomotor seizures, Only without a softness to stub myself Into--stiff and hard I drop From the cold rim of the bunk (Even if I awaken The idiots below). With non-syllables and vowellessness A pitch that is language enough To keep this man, Jim, From wherever The unassimilated disappear Howls "He does not want me here" While its flesh of Jim beats the plastic urinal On the walls barricading a pillowed head. The joke is on him this time... All over him for the next hours. The letter's impression Writes and rewrites in my mind: Come, my sister calls to our father Like Ronnie's suppositories butting back. Only suppositories are meant to do so. Come, she speaks to me, And the shrink Shall put in touch All that he did to us. Tripping over Keith's mattress I step out in humid silence And wipe my cheeks. Two cabins, beside ours, simultaneously fry Bugs in blue, electric lights. Keith, a crippled rocking horse of autism, Scrapes the feet of his vibrating body To the bench where I sit. Sit, Keith; go back to bed, Keith; Go to the bathroom, Keith: In this camp I shape the minutes of his life To some acceptable pattern. He rubs his hands together As if trying to spark fire For the inhabitants Of his imaginary world. Stop that, Keith, I say. Sit, Keith. Keith sits: There is no coming out For him after twenty years This way, Or perhaps for me. The pale gas lamps are strewn around A small area of limbs In a corner of the sky-- All but patches are aflame Like a roof of a tent around The stakes, ready to break off And fall.