FADING WHITE
She lies on linen sheets
on a white bed
in a white room
under a white light.
Her hand rests
on the black
oxygen valve,
skin wax-paper
thin, tendon
twitch the only
sign of life.
Behind closed eyes, she sees
a postcard from an old lover
tucked into the corner of her rolltop,
an inlaid matchbox from the Orient
with a lock of brown hair,
an embossing seal, the letter G
tinted by ancient wax.
She knows
the absence
of the present,
wonders what
the next will hold.
The black valve
waits beneath
her hand.
