Those combed, articulated ridges
(visible texture of the clouds)
are never glimpsed by those of us
in bedlike chairs or chairlike beds;
we may recall, but cannot witness
moments of frozen transformation
(as when mountainside drizzle whitens
into snow). You can’t be present
– except as a spectator, aside
from fields of play – as winter springs
or summer falls. You cannot finish
your sentences – cannot watch
the monitors that spy on you.
What happened to make gravity
so heavy, time so undefined?
Why can’t you stand, have a razor,
see your face, or sleep unguarded?
You can neither disembody
nor incorporate the unknown
diagnosis you’ve been granted –
question marks to fill the blank.
The false and true alarms, sounds
of chirp or groan, obliterate
all calm. You cannot wander off
or dream for long that you are not
here, inside the hospital.