Monday, September 28, 2015

KING TIDE


At the back wing of the old hospital,
the mountain stands sentinel.
Eve of the full moon eclipse,
king tide flooding the marshes
in a relentless hurry towards surcease.
Then the exodus. Systole, diastole.
Sine wave patterns.
What becomes important
are the little things,
both ordinary and plain.
We assign order and dominance
over statistics, meaningless
in and of themselves,
but crunch those numbers,
and the answer is a thin blue line
between life, or death.

9/28/15
Corte Madera



The back wing of the old hospital, where the mountain stands sentinel. Eve of the full moon eclipse, tide pushing in, it's in a relentless hurry towards surcease. Then exodus. Systole, diastole. Sine wave patterns. What becomes important are the little things, both ordinary and plain. We assign order and dominance over statistics, meaningless in and of themselves, but crunch those numbers, and the answer is a tin blue line between life, or death.

I wrote this when my cousin James Santos was hospitalized for congestive heart issues. He lived nearly two years after the diagnosis.

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