It is a summer evening. The yellow moths sag against the locked screens and the faded curtains s** over the window sills and from another building a goat calls in his dreams. This is the TV parlor in the best ward at Bedlam. The night nurse is pa**ing out the evening pills. She walks on two erasers, padding by us one by one. My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl; it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth. I will ignore the bed. I am linen on a shelf. Let the others moan in secret; let each lost bu*terfly go home. Old woolen head, take me like a yellow moth while the goat calls hush-a-bye