WEBVTT

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It's called "The Moon of Mind
Against the Wooden Louver".

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The visitors in room
8509 stand in a circle

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chanting something Russian.

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The Hasid's down the hall have
come in segregated silence.

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Men roll their thick white
stockings in the lounge.

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Mother and sisters still
between the door and bed each

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time I pass.

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We step across invisible
or merely transparent

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shadows making up their mind to
speak, to intervene, to call.

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A firm hand, like the AM nurse
sponging the last few hours

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of confusion from the somehow
childlike emaciated limbs

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and face.

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She lifts a bride, I
swear, swath and sheet,

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back of fresh linen,
and then clips

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the bottoms of the flowers,
keeping the family at bay

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while Barry naps in
her unbridled trust.

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We lack.

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Not without prayer.

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Not without the pluck
and humor of the song

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your bones thrum
while the blood still

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leaves their broadside
and their flank.

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I kiss your bones.

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In mind, each round of
pinnacle of rib is white.

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Against an O'Keefe sky and
light, they're lingua franca.

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Such thinking heals the moment.

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It divides us for its
duration like a cyclone fence

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from our despair, our rage,
our bitter, greedy fear.

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