<\/p>\n
Being in a coma can play<\/p>\n
havoc with your sense of time. It can<\/p>\n
turn your eyes from brown to blue. It can<\/p>\n
grow hair on your belly, it can get you lost<\/p>\n
between bedroom and office. If you are to<\/p>\n
live in extra innings, you\u2019ll have to watch the corners,<\/p>\n
step around bad things, ignore insults and welcome<\/p>\n
loving hands that sculpt you in your chair. Being<\/p>\n
refrigerated and put to sleep, dropping out of time,<\/p>\n
you have to save your humor and guard it, a precious<\/p>\n
trove to bring out as needed, white strips on the<\/p>\n
road flying beneath your vehicle, eat them up, wake<\/p>\n
to a busy underground world, where people in<\/p>\n
body bags keep passing by, tilted toward you know where.<\/p>\n
Where half the people in your life have gone, dissolving<\/p>\n
your sense of time, which was never supposed to have<\/p>\n
an end.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
George Bowering (Canada, 1936) source, Poetry<\/a> (April 2017), with an artwork by Edith Dekindt on show at Venice Art Biennale until Nov 26, 2017<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"