Sleep (1937) Pantoum

Sleep is the only suicide for responsible adults.
Dragging the big sooted bag of possibility
Whereto they schlep them, to their various therapies;
Shame, like a cipher, appears to now add together

Dragging the big sooted bag of possibility
Dissected frog-twitching-sparks in pitted collagen
Of the lip reader, privately elaborating to die happy, naturally.
But frankly, there is not much life in the time making

Lips speak ghosts—still and before—the unraveling collagen
Of the face, which is painfully striking during store hours.
Something billows behind the waiter, waiting and making
Mental notes of those thrown confusedly together at a table--
She, who with swaying balsam stick posed, so often during store hours,
Dipped back in dismay, to keep her pliant heart held together.
She cannot outsmart this monument, thrown confusedly at a table
Of their bargaining, and thus, only to be taught a slackening
In this not so subtle form of life--adjusting to a clearing together

And bracing the difference, wondering which of these props to use?
Which proprietary formula sends all branches scrolling into a fixed sum?
In the clearer example, of fame with food, in each a deep swallowing,
Sleep is the gauntlet thrown by two actors shrugging, a useless prop

Of the past falling out of place, for fear of one walking up and catching
It in the vacancy of an afternoon, the body burning and bearingThe loss of radio contact with the ground, with the guttering
Wind that has sent for you--her manner is coaxing, and is catching
Ahead of the moment you and another built an embrasure, just for you,
And this is the sincerest send off to researches into flight beyond
To founder, where you float thoughtfully misconstruing the possibilities.