I am back in that box marked phobia of hospitals.
My lungs stripped of tinned cans of milk.
There is a preacher with a gun in Florida
who refuses to stop praying with his followers
flocked together in some weird cultish suicide pact
with the devil of the detail as the cops wonder
whether shooting is contagious.
We are standing on the edge of our lives
and the distances are too great and yet
not far enough. I thought I had escaped
these scars but every night I dream
you are kissing me. The curtains have closed
and the show cannot go on. The pain sneaks
back stage and questions where there will be
money in the bank, a world to return to.
My skin fragile as the shell of an egg.
The birds sing louder now we have
fallen silent. I am listening to the music
of apple blossom in a breeze sharper
than surgical knives. I am staying still,
camouflaged from oxygen, waiting
for the wolf to pass our door.