Tags
beyond heaven and hell, maelstrom, night struts, poem, Poetry, reek, sonnet, sprung slow, wheel ruts
This hour. That hour. Staring at six normal
flowers someone brought you. My discipline,
when it comes to waiting in hospital
rooms, needs some work. All I do is listen
to your coughing wheeze while outside night struts,
all sprung slow and rooted with shadows from
the day. Once I thought that love was wheel ruts
in an old road … Or maybe a maelstrom …
Or some other metaphor. All I know
is that I’ll have to let go when you let
go. That’s love, too. I have no one to tell
this to in this room without a window.
Just six flowers and the reek of death-sweat
and a love beyond their heaven or hell.