Last night I thought I saw the mist lift —caught
a hint of recognition — heard
some half-remembered name. Today
she’s  lost and only sees the ceiling. And
I wonder if this different mist that blurs
long antiseptic corridors began
at that barred bed.  Is all this felt for her
this ache I take away? Or do I see
some distant fog and corridor — a place
where total strangers seem to know me and
a cot and vacant ceiling beckon me —
and wait.