Another stroke, and, as if it were a bird
your swallow vanishes. Flies off

at the start of a bleak season
on the blue scythe of its wings.

Your mind, flitting across some other
sky, is closed to us, our futile

bedside twitterings, is perched
on a cusp between worlds

seeking finer air. While
the dark screen of poplars beyond

the hospital window
obscures our view

of heaven.