Blue Light   Starfish, the hard spiral dancers, once squid soft, in lucent accord with the brine... Now their grace is calcified in glass bowl after bowl with the other empty shells, the pearly sheens each a polished keepsake lit in the shape of this room...   The small walls, the winter windows, that starched snow of whipped powder drifts to resemble the tips, the sculpted gullies of your sheets. "Comfortable?"  we ask, arranging pillows lost all about the coma's bloating & hollowing, its catatonic siege-state.  You're set on some sea's voyage,  your eyes of pale topaz yet stirring with an open, a close. Involuntary, they say, whispering too of "lost another, another going", but we find you, the room, the light & its relics of ocean dreams still staying with us quite alive with every breath of whoever is next to become patient   in this ward of sighs. Stephen Mead Stephen Mead (mead815@yahoo.com) is an Anthropologist specializing in identifying brain chemical imbalances of clerical staff in a lost Kurt Vonnegut manuscript.