Not the Sounds

These are not the sounds
of nature – the hiss and suck,
electronic machine breath,

metallic death rattle
from a deep accordion vein
winding through the walls

like a shadow – benevolent
giver of air to each white room
where inside they suffer,

forget, call for help,
call for anything – for love,
and waiting, oh the waiting

for good news, for any news,
for sleep, for the answer
to a symphony of beeps

and alarms, and hallway murmur,
and yes there is a window
that no call of bird will breach,

no scent of jasmine blooming
in the night to ease the souls,
no kiss of sun, no breeze

to gently tease the hair
through eyelashes
that want only to close.


Where in Time

Pay no mind
if you cannot remember
that it is Tuesday
or that the sun is in the sky
(not the moon),
or that your cell phone
is still, is still inside
your pocket, instead
the purple Jacaranda
tree in full violet bloom
and cotton candy flowers,
remember the custard
and how you love to lick
out the insides
like a small boy
on a concrete stoop
in Brooklyn – chocolate
melting down his chin
and resembling now
the wild beard
that catches pastry crumbs
behind a sterile curtain
on the seventh floor.

I Want to Write

I do not want to write
about monitor beeps
or oxygen valves
off-gassing, or the smell
of disinfectant, or wrappers
from tools used
to poke and prod
and drain, or trays
leftover from uneaten meals delivered,
or tubes leading
into bags, or bags
leading into tubes.  I do not want
to write about the light
that never changes, or the too white
sheets that tangle and tighten,
or the skin so bruised,
or the words so confused
in the night…

I want to write
about the time you asked,
Is it raining?
over the hiss and din
and clamor and spin,
because somehow you
were still connected
to the small, wet truths
falling out of the sky.