Apiary viii (For the ones

who line the corridors and sit silent in wheelchairs before the television with the volume off, whose cares are small and gray and infinite, time as ever to be faced    ... Methuselahs the nurses wash and dress without haste — none needed    ... this one has drunk from the poppy-cup and drowses in her world of  dream    ... Heliotrope, carnations, wakeful violets, and lilies in vases — masses of  flowers — wrap the urine-and-antiseptic air in lace    ... Please wake up; it is morning; robins whistle; the bees dance. Isn't this other one listening from her shell of  silence, and shouldn't she smile at the green return and dappled light through windows? As earth orbits the corridor clocks are wound    ... The last hour is a song or wound    ... Except in this corridor — mother's — where finity's brainless wind blows ash, and ash again blows through their cells: So much silence, so little to say in the end.)