As deep into the cave of sleep as he
could crawl he crawled, among the things
that hadn't skin nor legs, eyes but no lids;
but even at that depth he felt exposed.
His neighbors might pursue him there and roll
him on his back to slice his stomach open.
That's how he'd come to think of heroin
as a cove his little boat could moor in.
The islanders would bring him bags of take-out
and dance to the strumming of their ukeleles
and finally the tides would bear him off
to the great swells of the ocean Hamlet
extolls, a body unruled
by lines of latitude; which has no name;
which cannot be remembered.
-- Tom Disch (1940-2008)
March 3, 2008