I hear the hum of hallucinated neon
in the hospital; the caw of crows
in my vampire-ear.
Sympathy: the static rub
on my bare shoulder; the warm hands;
the cluck of tongues
that do not speak my language.
The live oak in Florida—tall, strange,
gray-black against thunderheads.
The time-traveling bird-voice
in my ear, in the tree: “Watch out
for what has happened!”
I heard more than I saw—even the hum of neon
seemed more clear
to my gray-black eyes.
(The banshee in the next bed could not take me;
somehow, I lost control