Steady cricket with its faithful drip…
Look, to this dance eyes gaze
beyond, above the puffy mask.
Lay hands on, check for fever,
a compress, a gown to be changed,
to be changed…
Angel, what visions are being seen
as we float through these machines,
these linens, these limbs?
Hovering above, blessings, blessings
stand at attention to pass with the passing.
In their wake all the night is a light
tender for such goings.
By Stephen Mead
- You can find more of Stephen’s work here.