It is as if his mind is now
an avatar that listlessly extends
a hand to little bits of life –
soft and peeping, sighing things
which don’t require more
than random slices of attention.
Belief in anything is held
in temperate suspension –
a mild banality of drift. It is as if
he’s made some final shift,
though we don’t know to what.
He occupies a comfortable rut
where And is the indifferentequivalent of But.