ICU

a haibun

A man in his gown stands at the window. His labored breath fogs the glass. A
handprint, twice as small as his, blooms in the condensation on the part of the
window that's always missed in cleaning. He wonders who did this—what it
means when something reaching across time toward you is seen. A warning?
Prophecy? Forgiveness? He gives one strong breath, and traces his hand, too,
hoping it'll be seen. He watches them disappear. Soon, he's forced to sit. Soon,
he forgets.

dusk filled linens
eclipse the outline where
a quiet dreamer waits