And grew sadder, hung about with me.
Now I am, all at once, cut off from it.
Do the lessons and the questions start again?
Or shall I say
Now, what it was like with you?-That worries me.
The house? I never got it right, exactly.
The rooms? Oh, there were so many things, so many.
. . . Mother, who was the dog
really?
That, in the forest, we would come on berries–
Even that seems, now, extraordinary.
Surely there're some other children
Who've died, to come play with me. They're always dying;
Lie there in bed, like me, and never do get well.
Well
. . .
How furmy that sounds, here.
Does it mean something, still?
Here where I am
No one
is
ill, I think.
Since my sore throat, so long ago already-
Here everyone is like a just-poured drink.
But the ones who drink us I still haven't seen.
