Each time I glimpse the surgeon
there seems less of him:
thin as a whippet's shadow,
wafer-passenger in lifts,
between sightings he seems to wane;
only his eyes and lips
bear intimations of vitality,
as if those lives
he wrests back from the brink
have sapped his strength.
Yet I sense he will not cease
to grapple with those toxic seeds.
Emaciated to the bone,
quietly he carries on,
and life keeps taking from him
for its needs.
Surgeon
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110091601904
Свидетельство о публикации №110091601904
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