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Event. His book's an object,
Gathers dust among objects
In no terrible darkness
Or emptiness, but only
In things around, continuing.
There are no gaps in the world.
If spirit's intermittent,
A fl ickerer that at last
Goes out, the body goes on,
Disintegrating only
To other bodies. The fi ne
Chemicals...! (While the body
And its habitat were what
Spirit had burned for its warmth
And light. In the beginning,
Spontaneous combustion.)
-- Conscious again; shaking, cold,
Interstellar cold sunk in
To the middle of the bones.
No doubt from the shock. A new
Numbness down there, and fresh pain,
And a meek feebleness, and
Morphine, all teach the spirit
How it sits reliantly,
Precariously, astride
Its old mule, the body, now
Tottering along strange roads.
I am still musing upon
The horrors that shape themselves
In the gray country of drained