To Listen Once Again

It may have been the blue uncertain stumbling Buzz
when light left, and he could not see to see;
it may have been the rhythm of the pump,
pulse of the machines,
whisper in the room around his bed,
or rattle of the noisy final breath
that took him to the black around us all
(just close our eyes).

How is he to go? What arms? What legs?
What eyes to search the promontory
where now he casts his filament
for anchor in this ocean of new space?
What hand to fling the gossamer
to find a place to catch and hold
and listen once again?
O, my soul.

John P. Kristofco