like watching your own death,
you can lie in the river
already in the after-life or post-mortem
(stress disorder)
assessing the angle of the nurse’s expression
as she stands bedside with paper cup
the cops behind
like the dropship porthole
300,000 feet up
you see the door twenty years gone
through which you will eject your body
from italy to the bronx to san diego
Juan Diego’s visions of the virgin are like yours
blood red smeared over your eyes
now receding
their apocalyptic insensity slowing
shuddering frames to stop
the nickelodeon slows
so you can see each angle of your mother’s kitchen
in cheap brown formica
the vodka tonic pearling white
the italian drugs have slowed the radial pupil dilator
just like your hand on the crank
creeping up to see your body dreaming