Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing-
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

Dressing each in a silver gown
Sliding each into a pre-warmed
Three hundred- twenty degree oven
Where they slowly roasted
While I was baptized in a metal tub
Behind the altar where that afternoon
I would be married
Making time to baste the birds
Then remove the gown and
Allow the flesh to gently brown.