Awake and dying

We are
hanging
on syllables,
meters of sentences,
ropes strung with platitudes
good enough for
fortune cookies
found in the
hollow bones
of broken
blood
relations.

Three poems for Ray

I.
They lift your body
from the bed
like a specimen
uncovered by excavation.

Your legs are tucked up
near the chest
and your hands,
so curled,
it could be like
you were holding flowers.

II.
Your left lung
bears stars.
There are constellations
of veins
tumors that are improvizations
on well conceived themes.

III.
The smell of the ward
is of overcooked vegetables and stale bedpans.
I brought some headphones
and the score to a symphony.