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JAMA. 2009;302(1):12.

	Since this article does not have an abstract, we have provided the first 150 words of the full text and any section headings.

Morning bells echoing and
twisting through narrow streets,
the moment under thick down
when I was anywhere, at home,
the cottage, my grandparents',

but there was the dresser in the
wrong place, a Dürer lithograph, and
something more than misplaced or forgotten

and not a dream,

the knot under my skin,
my wet shirt, my head,
it all came back,

his starched white words, some
selfish thing in my marrow, misunderstood,
or perhaps just hungry,

and demise at twenty-two
seemed absurd as I took my leave
in quiet secret ways, contrite, banished,
partitioned off a little more each day,

though I seethed watching
things not yet felt or thought or done,
distant journeys, reckless passion,
your world, your world

through disconnected curtains swinging
awkwardly along, thickening, such
beauty beyond the shifting cloth,

then the day came when I returned to
that sterile room, fearful place of my sentence to
hear . . . [Full Text of this Article]

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