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Convalescent


by David Ackley


 

On his first night home

his bed

rockets through the roof

deep into black star-pricked space

his throttled cry too far out

to be heard


that was one ending

 

Days go by, one day, all days.

 

An old woman brings

meals


she says eat


On his back, he makes

For the bedpan

which she then takes away



 

repeat

repeat

 

soft white folds of skin.

 

Headlights on the wall,

accelerate toward extinction

 

later he sways

in a cold

wind clutching

the porch rail

 

he'd forgot the

whisper of trees

how the grass measures

the course of the air

 

the months are gone

and this is something new

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