She’s blowing

into my pyjamas. Into my pyjamas

she’s blowing & blowing, & a doctor

is hammering. He’s

hammering & hammering. My pyjamas

full of nails. On which wall

should I hallucinate a ladder, a nurse

climbing that ladder? Desperate

to escape. From me? The doctor? Not me: tethered

to this bed by a chain, a heavy chain

that Nurse attached to my collar (the collar

that identifies me as a Category Three patient). Which

brings me to the question: Why

am I here?

I know

why I’m here. I’m here

for Vigilance, a Simple who, for his own safety,

must be constantly monitored. Who left that window

in that basket? They did, the padres, the

pushers of glass with knives to cut

the Mexican square from which, again, as always

I’m excluded, left to fend for myself, set upon

by bandidos, a bullet smashing my jaw. It’s

floating, my daughter’s violin, set free, moving away

from the room where the game-bags are kept. Who left

that dog chained to a post? Who’s sewing it, what’s left

of it, into my skin? – my skin of glass (for vigilance) into

which a nurse is blowing, & a doctor is hammering.



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