Dire Straits You think wheelchairs race the corridor at night, see letters on the mountain, ask me what they spell, there are no letters, there are no mountains, this hospital room looks out to the sea. Morphine makes your mind a public place, thoughts spill without censure, your voice has the cadence of country lanes again, before city streets, the lilt that struck a chord when you first asked for a dance at the disco. Students electric with eighties acrylic,...
