In love with ice although it makes him choke,
he asks for cups and settles for three cubes.
He’s weeks away from swallowing – his stroke
disabled signals, plumbed his face with tubes,
and swept him out of balance, off his feet,
removed him from his customary bed
and ordinary habits with complete
betrayal. The explosion in his head
has decimated, cancelled or postponed
ambitions that were mounting rugged heights.
He’s dwelling in the stroke dimension, zoned
for days of drugs and therapy, for nights
of pressured respiration, standing dreams,
and lust condensed to icicle extremes.