Poem Written on a Circle (Tangent: Lines by a Bed)

Poem Written on a Circle  

The hospital is a strong animal.

Never more lustral and barbaric

than when entered before dawn, in chill

drizzle, and exited a half-day later

in sheeny damp, twilight spangling gutter water.

It could never be my ally or my enemy.                 

I harbour an abundance it can never quite despoil,

which it does me the honour of despising openly.

The traffic jam on Avenue Road is an abundance 

too, forest of ruby taillights thrusting

such opulence silently ahead.             

Home again, I read a few ancient poems, too      

tired to take them in deeply but needing their     

pine-cliff vistas. Dusk sways, scenting the air

with pollen curtains. I fix myself a salmon

sandwich. Switch on a dead man’s lamp.             

(Tangent: Lines by a Bed)

Lees of loss, typhoon renewals—all mapped. 

Can you tack into the strangeness that is sanity?

In. Out? Spirit bubble in your throat the whole

globe’s turning. Hold it, floating, a moment longer.

Shadow is light’s mute ecstasy.