I'm running,
running the way we all run
toward death,
sprinting through swarms
of Pseudomonas and Serratia,
the din of the soaps,
a demented man's scream.
And I run the code
serene as a monarch,
issue edicts and commands,
infusions, boluses, electric thumps
until I drop the paddles,
bent, breathless.
When I raise my eyes,
the body on the bed,
dusky blue, spreads
limp as twilight
on the wintry hills outside,
commuter traffic on the street
choked motionless,
the silent signal light beating
orange, red, green.
Read more of Dr. Berlin's work.