THE EYES OF THE DEAD

 

that keep their shape

before dissolving into

rheumy mites, are pregnant

 

with cancelled dreams.

Peer as we might

what lies there

 

are our pygmy wishes.

More light, the poet

on his deathbed said,

 

let in more light

pink fingerlings of sunrise

on a fogbound lake

 

or woodland leaves

perhaps remain

in halls odiferous

 

with antiseptic swabs

and morphine drips

and unexpected pain

 

Johns Hopkins Hospital, March 2020



The Raven's Perch, June 7, 2021