THE EYES OF THE DEAD

that keep their shape

before dissolving into

rheumy mites, are pregnant

with cancelled dreams.

Peer as we might

what lies there

are our pygmy wishes.

More light, the poet

on his deathbed said,

let in more light

pink fingerlings of sunrise

on a fogbound lake

or woodland leaves

perhaps remain

in halls odiferous

with antiseptic swabs

and morphine drips

and unconstricted pain

Johns Hopkins Hospital, March 2020

The Raven's Perch, June 7, 2021