Sleeping in fever, I am unfair <br />to know just who you are: <br />hung up like a pig on exhibit, <br />the delicate wrists, <br />the beard drooling blood and vinegar; <br />hooked to your own weight, <br />jolting toward death under your nameplate. <br /> <br />Everyone in this crowd needs a bath. <br />I am dressed in rags. <br />The mother wears blue. <br />You grind your teeth <br />and with each new breath <br />your jaws gape and your diaper sags. <br />I am not to blame <br />for all this. I do not know your name. <br /> <br />Skinny man, you are somebody's fault. <br />You ride on dark poles - <br />a wooden bird that a trader built <br />for some fool who felt <br />that he could make the flight. Now you roll <br />in your sleep, seasick <br />on your own breathing, poor old convict.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-god-while-sleeping/
