Light amber-like, dawn or dusk
it’s hard to say, hospital, curtains
drawn against whatever’s outside – he’s lying

on his back, crocheted quilt
comically rainbow-coloured, folded
neatly beneath his chin, one eye

unshut, staring at the ceiling –
maybe there is something
on limit’s other side

or he’s watching where he’s walking
what trails ahead, what descents
inclines, sharp turns left or right

there might be a light, or someone
standing before him, a figure urging him to come
closer, follow in their footsteps.

Wanting – needing – to remain
I sit in a white plastic chair. I haven’t prayed
since school (a plea for an easier exam).

What images he always had
for me, what brush-worked worlds;
I’ve seen – inhabited – them all.

In the silence, the things of his pictures
flitter like swallows slicing
the morning air. How did he make magic

out of what he saw, heard, touched, desired, imagined?
In a way, his life screeched to a halt when I arrived
a screaming blubber of piss & shit.

To have found him like this. All I can give
in the suspended air begins & ends
with this: ‘Off you toddle.’

I laugh into the rounds of professional dispensement.
I stand, grip his shoulder as if expecting him
to open his other eye, wink

smile. But no. I feel the hardness of bone
all that calcium
ready for the underground

where he’ll dream up the sun
or moon, or both
at the same time.