Karl says we flatter ourselves

in trying to save a life. He hates

the confusion of hands on unfamiliar flesh,

the clatter of stainless steel and plastic

pushed to an excess of excellence.

He hates the blood on his smock

got there by our vain resistance

to some stranger's death.

He wants the green walls to be quiet,

the mayo stands lined up

beside empty beds, the surgical lights

kept off in response to a vision

that lets life proceed how it will.

He wants the careful truck

of cell to cell to state such harmonies

as angels know.

When he puts

his hands on men

who can no longer put

their hands on him, he says he hates

our overrated reliance on skill.

We should dismiss the grief

in love grown too completely physical

when hearts refuse their difficult rhythms

and lungs will not fill,

will not consent to a relationship

with air. He calls our care

indulgence and thinks we'd do better

to make less noise about the life

we won't let go gracefully back to God.