And I still walk the sidewalk mumbling something about how it will all be fine Fine is its own crazy village on the Rhine Fine is the name of the cuckoo-clock maker Fine is the word the cuckoo cries every hour after hour on the hour— scrambling out of its dark little hole like something being chased with a knife by Time
Like a twentieth-century dream of Europe—all horrors, and pastries—some part of me, for all time stands in a short skirt in a hospital cafeteria line, with a tray, while in another glittering tower named for the world's richest man my mother, who is dying, never dies.
