Adam Possner
Passing your hospital room
in the hours past visiting
I hear you just beyond reach
of the flickering light of
the TV, which you’ve kindled
as a kind of controlled burn
against the crack and hiss of
your crying – that raging sound
of hot breath as it consumes
all that dried during the day
for lack of hope. Agony
can’t be oxygen-deprived,
shoveled over with thick loam
of night or solitude or
a clenched fist. I stop and knock,
introduce myself, ask if
you’d like to talk. Such a fire
is never quite as painful
for another as it is
for you, in the first degree.
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