The drip sunk in his arm
he looks out; sees the bone beneath the nurses’ skin,
loose in their leanings.
It is over : death
out of his vein, the drip
the drip with its minced testicle of blandishment.
They will save his life,
abort a quintessential,
struggling gentleness, a life he has
placed in her womb,
a tiny pulse too light.
“It is ridiculous,” he murmurs,
as the pretty nurse leans over, tightening the band.
The blood thumps into strained normality,
the overdose has petered out in yellow urination
A pull, and it is out
in the bucket.
Squashed, he continues,
suicidal, for tumultuous reasons, small abortions, live.
from "Poems People Liked (2)"