Illness is a kind of intoxication
In which you drink pure pain
Like a freezing glass of pure grain
Alcohol. All your senses strain
Against a kind of ontological membrane --
If it breaks you die.
Slowly that psychological feeling like sky
Infuses the room where you lie
And your inmost you, letting go,
Presses itself against the dirty window
Where the dirt seems to form a kind of rainbow.
So few and so slow
Are the things you remember to know
As you fall behind
With lazy motions of the mind
And really begin to unwind.