The Projection Room

If lucky I will die in a room 

of non-hospital green, on plump pillows,

good linens, with good family and good friends,

the ghosts of loves, the odorama

of nitrate seas, forests or mountains on

walls.

Room where well-cast dreams lived and died.



Will my death be the end of a long love,

mystery, tragedy or comedy,

flashback to life or final nightmare?



Will your face be the last frame or just

the quieter, dustier bed

out there in the sun— the rain?