She thinks in a smaller hospitalShe would remember each faceWith some embarrassmentShe can remember all the rooms1421From whose eaves pigeons tumbleIts permanent winter of shitWhere she would like to put a thin strip of suspended gardenSomething in love with guano like haySome ruffling infancy of color707Where a couple lay in bed, one sickThe two now faceless in ozone hoodsThe room wore its stretch of curtainTight and broad like a bandeau in JuneUnspeakable honeymoonRinging for ginger ale all the time1603With its own sitting roomA surplus of telephonesOne almost expects a little home barSilver shakers a cigarette tray707Where a couple lay in bed— was the smaller one sickIs that just farm logic —Its stretch of green curtainSmooth and stiff like a banker’s lampAmortizing a fixed account830She thinks somehow she belongs thereIts shadows and somnolence appeal to herThe clock runs behindThe television sometimes stuck on a MassJust its own digestionPlasma and diodeIt is what she will ask for when sick1118Snow falls to waterThe nurse’s badgeClicks on the bedrail with a bell’s treadThe green fixtures spell nauseaLike a lighthouse one sees the swingBegin before the beam’s upon