I fix every kind of stab wound, fractured clavicle,
gold teeth sliced out of sleeping mouths for trophy
earrings, all paranoia's graffiti pleading. Doc please
yank this sardine can shaft, this mea culpa, out of
my memory. I don't perform haruspical inspection,
the nasty custom, but we're all Estrucans here,
apostates suffering hallucinatory visions, exiled
from the future, fleeing God's imagination. What
Heidegger said: saying a thing brings it into being
exists here in reverse where thinking makes things
disappear: Sundays, weather, a spring afternoon
on the veranda faith, a glimpse of infinity . . . Outside
everyone is human a few hours a week, loves caveats,
explanations, identifying aspects of reality; here, time
dominates, promulgates extraordinary instincts, loves
unforgivable mistakes. I too suffer night sweats, own
curtained eyes, a persona scrubbed clean of delusion.