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SPACE IN ICU A hose in her mouth Whistles in a mechanical breath Lines running hither and yon Tangle in a snarl on her chest Lights, graphs, beepers, and buzzers All monitor her falling state. Just a few days ago They were so much fewer. Was it only 11 days ago, she hugged me? Rules change, and gloves and gowns appear. Words like aggressive, infected, surgery schedule Float through the air, and hammer my mind And her eyes don't open too often. A skin graft which took, and another which failed, New faces joining "our" team, Blood pressure, a climbing temp, protein needs Are daily topics And she won't open her eyes. Was it just 29 days ago, when we laughed and kissed? Time may march on, but it crawls by here A separate twilight zone, a world of our own, A nightmare which never ends. Bob Armentrout Copyright 1999 e-mail: [log in to unmask]