lost to himself he wanders . . . away
from himself trying to find what was lost,
but having no memory of that, he searches
high and low with eyes blind to all meaning
save what’s seen in surfaces. there are times
he picks up objects simply because some
impulse demands it, a moment passing
and he stares in consternation at what
his hand holds as though it, his hand, has by
its own accord grasped the book or tool or
food which even now migrates toward his mouth,
which unaccountably drools, saliva
running down his chin . . . what does it mean now,
pooling on his white shirt, cold on his skin.

dmpitchford