It should not exist,
considering conception,
gestation and delivery,
quick growth,
decay and death.
What is all that to it?
It cannot inhabit
the chambers of the heart,
the meanness of the liver,
the sententiousness of the kidneys.
or the brain, with its dependence on the grace of oxygen.
It cannot exist, and yet it exists.
He, who served it,
is changed into a thing,
delivered to decomposition
into salts and phosphates,
sinks
into the home of chaos.
In the morning telephones ring.
Straw hats, sleek nylon, linens
tried in front of mirrors
before a day at the beach.
Vanity and lust
as always,
self-centered.
Liberated from the phantoms of psychosis,
from the screams of perishing tissue,
from the agony of the impaled one,
It wanders through the world,
Forever, clear.