By J.R. Solonche
Whatever else may happen
to a man on his back for six months,
at least he must become expert on himself.
Whatever else may happen to him,
at least a man must become an authority
on the coursing of his blood,
on the torque of his bone,
on the sloughing of his skin.
At least he will come to know
what every feeling means,
how every sensation has its cause.
And he will come to himself as the son
comes to the father
after a bitter estrangement.
And he will forgive himself many things,
everything.
And he will seek his own level,
as water does in a bed of stone.
Nominated for the National Book Award and twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of 26 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley, New York.