Off the Danger List

by Thomas Feeny

It has been two weeks now
Milky eyes no longer sink into
your skull
Your loose gaze strains to focus
in the weak afternoon light that
drifts through half–closed blinds
In the room’s every corner,
the cutting smell of hospital
All day a sour taste has raked your tongue,
so that you find few holy words
— just ten million dust motes,
swirling furiously
Concentrate. Listen to their story