Lullaby Before Surgery

My good roommate breathes

being alive along with me

like a water clock in his sleep.

His latch throat catches then

it frees bits of the air.

Our room is one slow sewing machine

the needles in our arms joining us

to whatever it is to be called alive.

The hall gathers ghosts their clay gone dry.

Filing past the open door each turns and nods

each murmuring so what so kindly.

Out the window the brown dark and the stars whisper

and the wad of violets on the windowsill whispers

so what and sleep and someone plans to call you early.