R.I.P.

Not forced to fall for hideous Phaon, nor to drift dreamlike from a Victorian cliff, pursued by visions of slender limbs, peach-soft hair, dewy violets clustered in an unwilling lap, not exiled on a distant island for writing smartly about love, not called amoral nor forgotten, not murdered by a jealous lover, nor weakened from drink, did not make an incision in the veins, never murdered in a tavern at twenty-nine nor thought mad, released immediately from St. Luke's Hospital for Lunatics, freed from Northampton General Lunatic Asylum, cured of syphilis, not mad nor ruined by drink nor shot in the head, the rope unknotted and fluidly slid from the lamp- post, sauntered away with a sideways crawl up the Champs-Élysées, never sickened from drink nor drowned in the Gulf of Spezia, the heart kept tight swam madly toward shore, disappeared down the glistening beach skipping happily in the direction of England, staved off fever while fighting for Greeks, lived, wrote, erased the blood-stained pillowcase, married Fanny, moved to Finland, fathered several pink-skinned children, lay down for a rest in the Baltimore street, got up confused about Spanish port and went to the graveyard to sleep it off, laudanum, opium, stroke, paralysis, aphasia, angels, threads of exotic Delacroix visions, but everything was put right when mom said, "Come on home, I want to care for you," left the house and walked into the river until the water level covered the hairline then shed the heavy Edwardian garments and broke into a birdlike breaststroke exclaiming, "How lovely to be free of the sickbed!" never destroyed by drink, sang while removing the shrapnel from a soldier, recovered from the Spanish flu, returned to Poland all debts forgiven by appreciative readers from the Congo, replaced the bottle of Lysol among toxic rats enjoying a sauna under the sink, did not pull the trigger or push the chair out from under the revolution while screaming about the army of the arts, put on a jacket and sailed to Mexico, calmly came up on deck, folded the jacket over the rail, and then— arrested by a vision of spread-eagled sailors descending like angels through the turquoise sky—decided not to swallow the sea, freed from Payne Whitney, walked right on through the psychiatric state hospital and out the other side, had no psychotic break while on acid in a land of dreamlike torch singers masquerading as Satanists, never touched the stuff, the dead liver tissue miraculously mended, smoker's cough silenced, cured by the sea air of old gray Gloucester, jumped into the beach taxi and drove down the beach gesticulating gaily toward the setting sun, not undone, unloved, forgotten, nor filled with despair, not punished for talking with angels, not unhappy nor alone, not misrepresented nor misunderstood nor nauseous from drink or drugs or depression, loved respected and read long-lived healthy and happy celebrated by all in life before dying contented in a comfortable bed.