Joseph O'Keefe​

Rising For the Hymn

​

 

 

When at last you know you will and will never

leave your beeping dripping room

eternity’s hum is rising to a hymn,

what then?

 

Thank the cool starched hospital sheets,

exalt morphine as chrism,

regret kisses never ventured,

lament bonfires of ambition embered,

wish for time to atone?

 

Realize your story will soon 

be carried only in other minds

or obituaries that may 

or may never be searched for,

that may or may never be found.

 

Recall your overture’s flourish,

sanctify your confetti of red letter days,

or note the pulse of your tender wrist,

so indifferent to the proof of calloused palm.

​

​​

​