1.
He’s sleeping again, and inside
he dreams that he cannot eat,
cannot sleep—
and then he can’t.
Not like this.
Not in this room labeled C3
on the second floor—
on the kidney side
of the hospital.
2.
And then, I’m addressing you—
You are lost again,
your usual stomach pains.
Your body, falling
under your skin
depleting
mimicing
the act of falling
until you grow a new layer,
your layer of Seattle skin
and rain.
You watch a man as he falls asleep
at a poetry reading, the girl
one seat over rotating a ring
back and forth
over the knuckle—
the sleet and snow—
all silver, like a string
of lights on the balcony
reflected
in the window
like small swans.