Hospital Dawn

A coma that is a white, interesting country
grows boldly from the bedside like narcissus 
on an August windowsill: a basket of pretty 
indirection, stretching. Downstairs 
in the vestibule a woman offers
coffee, a cigarette, her hand. Parking
garage like a ship’s hull, filling. No sun
yet. Though it’s morning and I am still awake.  
Will this day forget us, busied as it was all 
night with billowy nurses and rhythmic machines 
distending the thready cirrus of his breath?
Doors on automatic open, close, open as light 
finally ruptures as through sandbags, 
stanches the swelling landscape.


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