In those six days as he was

an innocent tenant. As this incarnate form.

Outside, the sun fanned the grass. Bore down

on tree line: ash, maple. 

We cleaned his house of panic. 

Produced absolution with confidence, or wanted to. 

Into his ear, I named two places: 

here and there, though I was alarmed by the oncoming 

travel. It had been a weeping spring

and would go on. Tulips straight

on tiny stems. Neighbors building what becomes them.

My heart those days was made of time, 

by which I mean distraction. Every word 

a sip, a pause, a story granted 

all its spilling. The nurse checked his pulse.

His face. Slowly, a latchet of movement. 

I remained in the middle

of a sentence, wanting nothing 

more than for the light 

to make its spaces, halving everything left.