Pain continues to inform my worldview. We have a tentative diagnosis, but no treatment plan or prognosis. Opiates make me dizzy and unable to operate heavy machinery. Intensity of pain falls between 8 and 9 on a scale of 10. Brandishing a fake-metal walking stick ($29,99), I audition for the part of Old Man in Act IV. Everything seems far away and out of focus.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house–, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,–
you had just walked down them and had vanished.
. . .
Who knows? perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening . . .
source: The selected poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. (1982). Translated by Stephen Mitchell. New York: Random House, p. 131.