Beautiful Day

Description of the damage from car accident

I can see, through teh window, the sun
gracing leaves of the tree with a glory
the bitter long winter had forgotten.
Apparently, from what I can see,
for some people
it will be a beautiful day.
I have nothing to do.
Well, there is nothing that I can do but lie here,
contemplate the pain that tossed me body all night
in nightmares struggling for comfort,
struggling to ignore, forget.
When we were good I had it under control; but
all force has now been expended, like love,
and for reasons just as pointless.
Breathing, the nose, still swollen,
it's break still unlocated in the septum
aches through the forehead and draws a thin blade
to the tip, along the bridge, out across the cheeks
and the sockets of my orbs; evacuating
the flu's bacteria every two minutes aids not at all.
The lips, cut and swollen, still refuse
to conform to the edge of a glass
or tolerate that coffee requires the heat.
The teeth ache, but thankfully
none have broken with the impact.
The left eye looks a gun-shot wound,
another omen from the Universe
that I have seen far too much,
and hurts to close, but hurts to open.
The exterior of the throat is only slightly scratched,
betraying none of the blackned blood that haematomes within;
again, another unpleasnatry for influenza.
The back of the neck, whiplashed,
is in tandemed hammering with the back of the skull
which orbits completeley around again to the bridge of the nose.
Coughing exacerbates this,
as does lying down,
or standing up,
and sitting makes me dizzy.
I self-diagnosed concussion last night:
another of my secrets.
The shoulder has started to bruise,
but the pain of the road-side's kiss has passed:
grateful are we for this tender mercies.
The heart, of course, occasionally palpatates,
sometimes rests,
and always asks why? No car
caused this pain, but a woman
of callous words and dangerous morals
and that too will not soon heal.
The ribs, though not bruised, are still
shocked, like all other organs,
at the passion of gravity's embrace;
but broken they are not,
so still I can writhe in agony easily enough.
The hip contains a small cut, but the bone has been chipped
restricting my consistant night-time rolling
to 90° of pained freedom.
The knee...
    ...ah, the f*****g kneee.
Right where the beautiful front end of the gleaming white mercedes struck
is black, purple, tired - a testamental badge of strength
gracing these old Irish bones. The other side, though,
where the thick bone snapped
the pressure on the nerves and tendons
flows from the cap to the toes to stomach heaving
me into the black nothingness that engulfs the conciousness
everytime I move. I would reach down and massage
but the fractured elbow restricts all action but holding
a book, a pen, a phone with your voice so far away.
I look in the mirror and have to forgive you;
I would not want this broken thing either.
Butn the sun outside is beautiful
so I will remember the force that brought us
from the swamps, through Babylon,
to the Moon, and extricate myself for a journey
maybe to another window, where, if I am lucky and fast
I will make it in time to feel thesun on this broken face
before it swings back around
to the window that I now look out through
content that some people will be having a beautiful day.