I am holding the hand of a man
peering into the dark abyss
here from the sixth floor ICU,
while I peer through a window
smudged with the smears
of a lazy custodian who
clearly rushed his night routine.
Outside the sun is teeming with life,
neutralizing winter’s affect,
bouncing off car hoods in afternoon traffic;
feverish sparkles on the rippling river
through which college crew boats run.
Stripped poplars salsa in wind,
branches dancing an enchufla with
an exuberance beyond reason.
Joy wells up in me like treason,
only to sheepishly ebb away
at the sound of his labored breathing,
at the sight of his matted hair.
Life and death circle with swords,
touching tips in posturing challenge
as sun-shafts sweep the heart monitor,
waxed floors mirror wide-sky clouds,
seagulls mock the urostomy pouch.
And the window smudge is referee.
This failed attempt at clarity
stands in the middle of the stalling spar,
witnessing in, witnessing out,
hopelessly swirled like a van Gogh star.