Light in the form of hard-edged crystals
interrupts the room at the foot of the bed.
The bed itself is a raft pushed up on an icy wave
rolling across the bare-board floor
and now wedged frozen between the crystalline intrusion and the screened window.
The walls are striped and shadows are soaked into their fabrics.
Two bottles (waiting filling) (waiting emptying) are on the ledge before the window.
A lesser wave, of dream-written paper, breaks against them.
He is half propped up on a pillow against the iron bedstead.
He is halfway between worlds though, un-dead, un-alive.
Wrapped in a cold sheet, arms pinned to his sides, his head cocked at a watching angle.
A blanket, curled to form the letter S, supports his shoulders.
A black fungal rain falls in the room, falls on his spirit back, onto the memory of a position.