A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Munseetown

This one beside me in his bed of pain
(He thinks he is about to die)
Sighs all the night and fills the night with sighs,
His mouth a red purse
Spills now a coin for Cristos, now a curse,
But always the sibilant refrain:
Nurse? Nurse?
A whispered shuffle in the hall announces
A sloe-eyed painted lady white as Christ,
Whose sword of light she carries passing by.
The clock she tenders occupies her eye
(She thinks he is about to die).
Her grail, the needle and its measured ounce,
She stabs into him like a lance
Prompting the tedious rehearsal:
Nurse? Nurse?
Nurse? Nurse? the mordant humor of the ward
(Who think each man beside about to die):
They work each several pain into their flyting,
Wake and prey on each unconscious word,
So that the gurney, glum as any hearse,
Rolls to a merry measure by: Nurse? Nurse?
Nurse? Nurse? Nurse? Nurse? Nurse?