Hyacinthus opens sky for ICU bedders

with the sky bloodied a blue so blue.

We pledge in Latin our mutated love:

“‘carinii pneumonia …

My arm vines your nape for a kiss;

you scratch a furtive glance at the IV pole.

We make love holding hands instead—

Latin is now our embrace.

And love—this bright, corpuscular love—

is the endless despair of never coming back.