| Blue Light
Starfish, the hard spiral dancers,
once squid soft,
in lucent accord with the brine...
Now their grace is calcified
in glass bowl after bowl
with the other empty shells,
the pearly sheens each
a polished keepsake
lit in the shape of this room...
The small walls, the winter windows,
that starched snow of whipped powder
drifts to resemble the tips, the sculpted
gullies of your sheets.
"Comfortable?" we ask,
arranging pillows lost all about the coma's
bloating & hollowing, its catatonic
siege-state. You're set on some sea's
eyes of pale topaz
yet stirring with an open, a close.
Involuntary, they say, whispering too
of "lost another, another going",
but we find you, the room, the light
& its relics of ocean dreams
still staying with us quite alive
with every breath of whoever is next
to become patient
in this ward of sighs.
Stephen Mead (firstname.lastname@example.org) is an Anthropologist specializing in identifying brain chemical imbalances of clerical staff in a lost Kurt Vonnegut manuscript.