Passing the Night

Passing the Night / Mark Mosley

for Clement Goode

Our homes are quiet.
Tents of snow and oxygen
frozen under faint lights.

In these dark hours,
we listen to ourselves
breathe at our own pace.

We follow floors for hours,
the long hospital halls,
staying alone, taking hold.

We think of the white room,
figures beside the sheets,
voices coming from gowns.

Now dawn, your lips still.
We look for a word,
a pulse in the throat.

Then an arm, turning over,
as peaceful as earth,
the palm of your hand.

Passing the Night: Copyright 2021 by Mark Mosley. All rights reserved.

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