THREE POEMS

in the hospital atrium after the wreck

I read his decision to wear camo to the hospital as meaningful rushes and reedscross the body bend and breakartificial topiaries catch his thin cotton sheethis lone tab of blue thread, his far edgeoutside, the wind blows and the leaves, but the trouble staysbetween elevations hushlook up at the canopy of green shoots, even heresmall green notations slumped into soft white wicker outdoor furnitureall the people like rough stones, sit out and the light hovers over themif the weather is nice almost anybody can be revivedwhen everything passes through a condition of floradon’t pick the flora, letgo, what pain is there room for, amongthe poppies? they have dwarfed meheat dipping each little neckI see a man on the same corridor, who I also mistakefor something abandoned he chokesnone but the old poke weeds about himtry to understand in a small indoor foresttrunks are just a thin form of his nakednessfixation, a form of care I complicatemy rosy complexion with thinkingI believe it is raining I believe wheels wicking away rainwatersomeone fluttering someone driving the Dodgemusic in the car as a grand atmospheric conditionthe light is going down simpler terrifyingstretches of road tropical in their fervorthrough the window weather systems drop offfinally, the cold at my back these grassesmaking a sound like rain I doubtthen a gale of grasses light, tooneglects to cross the face of the sky