The open air had the predictable sparkleAfter two months not only indoorsBut flat on my back, waiting, mostly,For the neck they kept cutting open to healSo that when they wheeled me out through doubleDoors and the tram passed across my fieldOf view and the scattered strangers fleckedThe white blur my eyes madeLike floaters after a long sleep, I felt,Sudden in my plexus, the exact angle of lossI had lived with when I lived hereAs though it had waited for me to return so asTo enter me again, as though I had notLived four years without it, elsewhere, whereThey say life is, regardless of where you are,So that as the bells of the Fraumünster rangFrom inside the steeples, the tailOf the lake stretching out of view betweenThe hills on either side, I became,As an actor becomes, animated, populated bySomeone else’s feelings, someone else’s spirit—And now, a few years later still, I knowTo ask if this complex of feeling, deep-frozen,Waiting for me, was my actual life—Not a portion of the life, notA possible life, but my tangled and patientActual implausible resilient fucked-up life?