living for a while in a hospital
is living in the world of footsteps
and changing emotions.
the hospital clock is organic.
the hands on its face do not move.
there are no hands.
there are the circumstances
of routines with interruptions.
the music is a biospheric score
threading a path through the antiseptic smells.
the vehicles of transformation roll or wheel
in and out of corridors in and out of rooms
in and out of consciousness and lost consciousness
trying to avoid the consciousness it used to form.
the instrument trays are hushed
into barely audible intentions.
there is a lot of white that is not paradise.
there is a management curfew.
regular and irregular probes.
remotely monitoring monitors.
gloves that are not for the opera.
quiet shoes in the world
of footsteps and exchanging emotions.
even the emergencies try to be quiet.
group hysteria is avoided.
there are last resort chapels for the criers.
there is a lot of white that is not paradise…
                                                   soaking up the blood
                                                   that does not know if it is dead yet.

March 6, 2025