hospital gown

The trees have less colour,
not more, against the ashen sky.
We troop to the hospital
in holy twos or alone, as I am
this morning on foot, to administer
cold kisses to the north,
south, east, and west of your face.

You are so graceful
even in decay, your gown
a perfect canvas for the waltz
of visitors announced
by the gifts they bring in
and out, in and out—
my breath adds life this morning
to an otherwise motionless street.