Illness provides a fine example
Of truth as an infinitely graded range
Rather than a black or white
Firmly bounded this or that

Now death erects a pretty firm boundary
Though friends deny and some say
The breath goes now and some say No
But truly when you’re dead you’re dead

And the great source of denial is hope
For so long as breath endures hope persists
And the great source of hope is technology
Poor addicted humanity

When the lights go out all shriek
And pour into the streets
We got no power we’re gonna die
And the town descends into looting and chaos

And the patients in intensive care
Are the last to flee
When an orderly wheels the gurney
Tubes cables and all toward the nullified elevator

And in a piping treble the patient implores
Is it an operation Am I going to be cured
And the brave orderly Just relax Everything’s fine
But at the moment of death the afflicted grows silent

Death is a silent monologue
The subject at peace after raving inexpressive terror
While illness in its majestic variety
Expresses itself in a million questions and complaints