The sixth sense bump, catapults
a sick kid laid out on a gurney wrapped
in a stiff hospital gown — green —

Hurled, hit through the close halls
to bleached sanitary spaces where evil
Lurks — ether washrag drips on the face

As the tongue numbers a few good sheep
to fairy reaches beyond narrow corridors
of breath, lines of color dances

Thinly, slow down, speed up outside
the confines of sense. Wings of the
White Lady beat down, strain tones of

Rapture from the young soul’s sleep.