I open the door,
turn on the light
and smile in your direction.
Fog burns away, the morning glows.
Fractured reflection, light from your arms.
I touch them often.
Much later, in the hospital,
spots like acid burns
on your bloated torso.
Sea-waves in your eyes;
the waitress loves your jokes.
I lean back into golden haze.
The nervous friend, the co-worker.
When they leave, your eyes close.
I watch you breathe.
Spinning out conversations:
your favorite books, pet theories,
memories of beaches, mountains.
Your earnest last commands to fight.
Love like a gale behind me, pushing.
You ignore the nurse taking blood.
Anguish at the heat of your touch,
hands sliding down my back,
and touch again: when will this end?
Your sleep, disfigured, wasted.
I watch your bruised face,
amazed: so beautiful.
Sun cut the fog away,
such blazing light and air,
I thought you’d be here always.
I open the door,
turn on the light
and smile in your direction.
[Los Angeles 5/2-11/24/90, rev. Hong Kong 10/11/97]
Paul Attinello 
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