The night I woke to find the sheets wet from you,
like a man cast up on the beach,
I hurried you off to the shower to cool you down,
dressed you, the garments strict and awkward in my hands,
and got you into a taxi to the hospital,
the driver eyeing us from his rearview mirror--
The blue tone of the paging bell,
the green smocks, metal beds,
plastic chairs linked
in a childhood diagram of infection,
and when they wheeled you by
there was a needle in your arm,
the bruise of this
already showing itself,
and rather than watch gloved doctors handle you
in their startling white coats and loose ties,
I took a seat outside and waited,
time yawning, thick and static--
and made clear to me in the bright light of speculation
was time's obstacle in the body,
and those things I could do that might cushion it.