Doors moan like lovers, as compassion flows
like sick over scrubbed floors.
Controlled circumstance of pity,
corridor shufflers look lost as refugees,
concerned and clumsy with frames,
bags of black blood follow them like pets.
(They are not allowed to find sleep in the ground,
under air and pine needles) .
A place of decay under pastel, a maze for
Jesus the daughter of God, for ghosts and unlikely saints.
Let them go softly into the night.
Let them pass through the thick window glass
to where the others are.
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Comments about this poem (Hospital by Leslie Philibert )
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