In the courtyard the first white apple petals float up and out of sight,
stolen by the breeze. From his bed he observes these small
ecologies.
Though they long for each other the petals miss the earth.
There is a black growth in the damp corner of the window.
He watches an ant carry away a crumb from his tray.
No more come. He waits
under his blankets as the girl wheels in her sterile cart.
As she works he asks her again about southern California,
the same way he asks others about Montana or the Louvre.
She tells him how warm it is there, bluer, the flowers bleed color,
how she feels light and whole lying naked in the sand.
She tells him the cold bothers her the way it bothers mold: she
grows but slowly.
The infusion of bleach makes him sneeze – explosions like gunfire
in old war movies. While she cleans he floats Kleenex into the
basket.
“The sun is bright,” he says. “I see the wind is from the south. Is it
warmer today?”
“Not enough,” she replies, sponge dripping, wiping tile.
