He says it was a car accident,
but we smell Russian Roulette.
A doctor with a southern accent 
tries to piece together a broken
story. It’s four minutes ‘till
one in the morning, 
sleep shies away from florescent lights 
and the stiffness
of this starched hospital bed.

Pretty nurses with morphine-laced fingers
drip a dream intravenous,
steady metronome bleeps 
and heavy breathing. 
The scene behind the membranous
emergency room curtains 
becomes more
distant.

The ceiling grows whiter, more fibrous. 
Voices beyond the bedrails 
flood the room,
the awkward clutter of electric machines, stainless steel and warm bodies 
            grows louder, but I begin to hear it less.
All the immiscible colors
of a thousand pains and lesser cures
swirl like gun grease 
in bright blood
                         oily, 
above my head.