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.