The wrinkled gown fits
loosely over him.
In a pale room, the colour

of note is the green plot
on the monitor. There’s a fuss
in the corridor. Come on,

Brenda, love, you’re going
the wrong way. They guide her
toward the lounge, where

a saxy jingle and a pitcher
of warm squash conspire
in the still air. He grumbles.

His flabby, labouring arms
are bruised as a field
of cow pats. Words slog

the slope up to his tongue.
It will come. Will it come.
But there is no need

for this now. In the next
bed they are washing
ribs, skin, a professor

of mathematics. The ceiling’s
integrals and means
must be captivating.

A spire and the stadium
frame the moor where I
staggered over my first

childhood distances.
The sudden sun hurts.
Wing tips of light

careen across our cell
into the passage. Can someone
save Brenda from herself?

But she’s seen it, now.
She’s slipped her robe.
To catch her they would need

feathers for fingers.