Figure it—all thought
and everyone,
adrift and slipping
inside this sloped
and beguiling container;
a thing,
an object in the actual world
which holds
and measures out an abstraction—
a sense
quite apart from it.
Picture it—apprehension
with a certain pace
and a definite
direction.
Patience (quintessence
of dust, province of actors)
grows headless;
it has no face,
is becoming the slightest,
the emptiest,
the least recognizable faculty
on earth.
A patient, meanwhile—
is still one
who suffers.
