In a vain attempt to emulate the hospital sonnets of Mr Peter Oram, I wrote the following while recovering from having my hernia fiixed.
Ward 3
Who knows
where the time
goes? Into the dark
den of Side Room 3?
goes? Into the dark
den of Side Room 3?
Up that
half-awake
patient’s nostrils? Does
it infiltrate the grille
of that steel ceiling vent?
patient’s nostrils? Does
it infiltrate the grille
of that steel ceiling vent?
I watch.
Perhaps it fills
(tangled among
levers)
the space beneath my bed
until it overflows
down to where the dead
lie in that basement room
one enters with muted tread.
the space beneath my bed
until it overflows
down to where the dead
lie in that basement room
one enters with muted tread.
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