Visiting Hours

The cells are scheduled every day
To empty out; like empty men
We wait. Next day, I wait again,
And so might they.

From curtained closets calls distinct
Clash in closet air: distant cries
And whimpers, duelling miseries,
Beeps succinct.

These are my friends: the rattled retch
Of hueless mucus, gargled blood,
The distant dentures' dream of cud,
The smacking letch,

The rasp of life filed down by breath,
The patient sleep, the doctors' rows,
The man more quiet than a mouse,
More still than death.

Now light breaks not where no sun shines
On curtains thick and twilight-heavy,
And death draws tight, and lifts his levy
In waning whines.

The chequered ceiling's dark and wide,
And traces 'L', and thinks of things;
Kicked-over castles, leapt-over kings,
The day outside.

But tea-stained Bibles cannot keep
Our thoughts, nor do our thoughts keep them,
When fears our fears come to condemn
And will not weep.

We are not ours. We will not die
In draughty corridors. Our rest
Sleeps on in a soft and warmer breast,
And so shall I.

Thomas Clark