PerPoBlo

I am the long corridors now, the early-morning
fresh starched sheets, the efficient cushioned
heel, the brief burr of nicoteine upon the resting
knuckle, the studied, closed bedside manner –

I am the newly anodised gospel
which remains unread ’til the last, when idly
spindle-fingered, a cousin intones pale
psalms having read Trevayne unabridged.

It is like surfacing for
a moment, hopeful, and then sinking back: the luke
warm words slipping away, leaving only
the silent yearning for Tyndale and dimorphine.