Sitting drinking
liquid iodine solution
every half hour
writing verse and scanning
stale magazines
makes me think of
the state of the plastic floor
and the echo of
voices and utensils
in the hospital cafeteria
down the hall
and whether my body
like our garden is sprouting
some new growth
some scattered seed
brought in by the wind
some new thing that slept
under the leprous snow
while we were celebrating
year’s end darkness.
And if there is something
some cell mutating
gorging on my insides again
and if they can
cut it away again
or burn it out
what will be the purpose
of all this intricate machinery
this terror, angst and dread?
If we sick are heroically
snatched from the jaws
the very claws of a
dandelion infestation
to go home and watch TV
maybe we shouldn’t be.
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