The painter is deposing my poetry. He says that he works from 9 to 5 every day, not merely painting, but thinking "outside." He says that my poetry is too "either/or" whereas the best art is "just and." He also thinks that I have purposely made my poetry coherent to get the other members of the so-called School drunk (or to make them look drunk? I cannot remember). I realize with a shudder how much he dislikes my poetry. I say, But, painter, that is just what was said about you, in a sense, in relation to an expressionism, that you took it and made it something curiously coherent like the United States of America. No response. My "Hospital City" I walk down the corridor to my hospital's room. She is lying unconsciously slouched in a chair. A nurse is cutting her hair, what little there is, from her almost completely bald skull. My mother.