FOR JOHN M.

Death Bed for John M

My friend, an old ma

Becomes a baby

Swaddled in a sheet

Pale hairless belly ballooning

Blind hands pulling the air

Stub of his penis pierced

With a catheter morphine

Focuses his grey eyes

On the middle air they are

Islands between this shore

And the last dispersing edge

Of galaxies feathered to dust

Behind the lens a disc of memory

Voices asking do you remember

A jolt between naps

Glimpses of the yard roses

Trees he planted as nursery slips

Shade his window black days

Behind ahead a tangle

Of tubes and pills counted out

By his wife who rests a cool

Hand on his forehead, mother.