page 109

The nurses are coming

2.55 p.m. and a swing door opens
and five nurses in dark blue

mid-calf-length slacks and V-necked
tops adorned with silver watches

each with a sheet in her hand
detailing the last vital recordings

the progression of signs which they read
in a glance. In Room 5

all but one line is being taken out
and the morphine is two-hourly.

A head sinks into a little folded towel
deep in a pillow, like a snow angel

and the nurses walk, bunched together
down the polished linoleum, past

the open doors of the dire, not looking
yet, just walking, just coming on

the way stars come out, flicker
and gleam: We are here, we are arriving.