A language I half-understand, that of
Half-neural, half-domesticated man. What was
Outside me enters, what was inside disappear5,
I remain whole, an environment whose ignorance is
A government, one who is susceptible
To sneezing, falling, gulping,
Being warm or nearsighted or tall.
In
the dark before sleep I recall
That the un-J ohnsonian mind of latter centuries
Says nothing is there, that the body
Is an object of time put in motion by
A few imperious words and stilled
By a few obedient lies.
The gropings of appetite, all our dumb ritual rounds
Are subsumed beneath a more logical suffering–
Yet a certain dignity refuses to concede.
Bodies pose questions too.
How else, they ask, are we to consort with our
Perishing? How else to admit we are
Our own preludes? The belly roars.
The Doctor reaches across the table
And lays hands on what is good.
Philip Appleman
WATCHING HER SLEEP
On her left side again, the right arm pillowed,
the breathing regular as waves:
it's summertime, and childhood,
her father come to life again
to smooth her hair and drift a grassy
sidewalk toward the sundaes at Prince Castle,
and coming back alone she flies
