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Created with Fabric.js 1.4.5 You, Doctor Martin, walkfrom breakfast to madness. Late August,I speed through the antiseptic tunnelwhere the moving dead still talkof pushing their bones against the thrustof cure. And I am queen of this summer hotelor the laughing bee on a stalkof death. We stand in brokenlines and wait while they unlockthe doors and count us at the frozen gatesof dinner. The shibboleth is spokenand we move to gravy in our smockof smiles. We chew in rows, our platesscratch and whine like chalkin school. There are no knivesfor cutting your throat. I makemoccasins all morning. At first my handskept empty, unraveled for the livesthey used to work. Now I learn to takethem back, each angry finger that demandsI mend what another will breaktomorrow. Of course, I love you;you lean above the plastic sky,god of our block, prince of all the foxes.The breaking crowns are newthat Jack wore.Your third eyemoves among us and lights the separate boxeswhere we sleep or cry.What large children we arehere. All over I grow most tallin the best ward. Your business is people,you call at the madhouse, an oraculareye in our nest. Out in the hallthe intercom pages you. You twist in the pullof the foxy children who falllike floods of life in frost.And we are magic talking to itself,noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sinsforgotten. Am I still lost?Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,counting this row and that row of moccasinswaiting on the silent shelf. You,Doctor Martin The narrator is a woman in an insane asylum addressing her doctor, whom she sees as "god of our block," taking care of all his "foxy children." His "third eye moves among us" making him seem powerful and all-seeing but remote. She keeps herself occupied making moccasins, giving her something to do with her hands. Meaning:
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