I have already considered
Three philosolphical problems
Worthy of prolonged reflection: Why
Are we here?
Is there anything to eat?
Where are out dead friends?

Now it is time
To get dressed.

Behind the wall
I lie facing, the old woman
Suffering from gradual disintegration of the spine
And half asphyxiated with
The stench of her own urine
Begins another day.
I can hear her now

Asking in the little
Laughing children from upstairs,
Who like to torment her by banging on the door,
So she can slit their throats.

And not far from here -- Not that
Far -- the long grave
Of the river flows on.

So flow on
My unfathomed horror

Black and cold
As space

As it gets dark tonight
And the two or three stars start to appear
Between the bridges and
It can grow no colder,

When the light comes on in the tombs of the skyline,
When the druged patient hovers a foot above his body,

Only tied to this world at the wrist
By the IV needle, futile
Hourglass of tears --

I will never again hold your poor
Emaciated hand.

I will never again see your
Listening face.

The first white crocuses
Suddenly appeared
Back in Ohio,
One day before
I heard you were gone.

Are you
Still here? And if not,
And if not

Flow on my black music, flow on
My wind in the hospital hallway --
Flow on, flow on
My beginning,
My last address.

- Franz Wright - Lower East Side Dawn





FIN