In Hospital

In Hospital

Even now, your voice over the phone
makes sunflowers turn to listen.
Even here, I can smell the distance:
anise, wild celery. Seabirds
this morning are flying in pairs.

Third floor, first room on the left,
Cistern of the Fates, where they serve
breakfast of lab-results, eggs
scrambled with doubt. Down the hall
someone whispers to no one who can hear.

Imagine skydivers keeping the green
of a pasture target as they fall
through ponderous air. My good luck
charm, an agate extracted like
a tumor—a crimson layered heart.

On the long drive home, I watch
two hang-gliders practicing their
pas de deux. Two wild geese, always
in pairs. I wait for the phone
to ring with sunshine.