It starts like this: the clamps around my wrists.
The little Saturn ring around my head,
The wooden chair, the arms still warm, though dead;
Then the electric thrill, the arch, the twist;

The expiation just before the twist,
The quick reform of madame in her bed,
The spasm, the welcome-wagon for something newly wed;
Or the ambulance, the sirens, the sudden lisp.

It makes me so serene.
It ties me to a rock
And sends me swimming.

It causes quite a scene
To feel the wood and stone become a dock
To hear the pastoral in endless singing.


Copyright © 1982  M. B. McLatchey.  All rights reserved.
Automatic
Writing