Who wouldn't admire

a man more discreet than opium
imported from Egypt,

how it always leaves a note
on the pillow where dreams

escape the sad woman
wandering like the ghost

of an insomniac with a torch
in her hand. The light

is softer than the solid claw
of night's bitter talk.

At least she can look
forward to a visit

from Hippocrates who says
'Melancholia is moist.

She must be dried'
so he offers red wine

and bleeds her vein.
Hippocrates takes an oath

and finally there is silence.