For Donald Clark br br br Drugged and drowsy but not asleep br I heard my blind roommate's daughter br helping her with her meal: br “What's that? Squash?” br “No. It's spinach.” br br br Back from a brain-scan, she dozed br to the sound of the Soaps: adultery, br amnesia, shady business deals, br and long, white hospital halls.... br No separation between life and art. br br br I heard two nurses whispering: br Mr. Malcomson had died. br An hour later one of them came to say br that a private room was free. br br br A chill spring breeze br perturbed the plastic drape. br I lay back on the new bed, br and had a vision of souls br stacked up like pelts br under my soul, which was ill— br so heavy with grief br it kept the others from rising. br br br No varicolored tubes br serpentined beneath the covers; br I had the vital signs of a healthy, br early-middle-aged woman. br There was nothing to cut or dress, br remove or replace. br br br A week of stupor. Sun and moon br rose and set over the small enclosed br court, the trees.... br The doctor’s face appeared br and disappeared br over the foot of the bed. By slow degrees br the outlandish sadness waned. br br br Restored to my living room br I looked at the tables, chairs, and pictures br with something like delight, br only pale, faint—as from a great height. br I let the phone ring; the mail br accrued unopened br on the table in the hall.