Lean in and sing softly—your breath against
my ear like a whisper but with music
 
and your lips just faintly brushing the skin
along my neck so that your words are shapes
 
your mouth is making while the sound fills up
all my hearing, drowning out all the noise
 
and your face so close to my face is all
I know and I blush just from the rich smell
 
of your skin: heady, warm, resin, and pine—
and forget the nurse that waits by my bed
 
to measure or inspect, listen or check
on the machines or the tubes or the pills
 
—bend even more closely humming deep
in your throat so you’re all that I can see.