Each morning I made my way
among gangways, elevators,
and nurses’ pods to Jane’ s room
to interrogate the grave helpers
who tended her through the night
while the ship’ s massive engines
kept its propellers turning.
Week after week, I sat by her bed
with black coffee and the Globe.
At the edge of the city the pickerel
vomits and dies. The river
with its white hair staggers to the sea.
My life lay crumpled like a smashed car.
Windows barred, ivy, square stone.
Lines gather at mouth and at eyes
like cracks in a membrane.
Eyeballs and tongue spill on the floor
in a puddle of yolks and whites.
The intact 707
under the clear wave, the sun shining.
