Blueberry bagels and the Globe.
Everyone walks in green fields
ignorant of the moment
but knowing that grass will collapse
one day into oblivion.
Every three months a Hitchcock
tech draws a titre of my blood;
a week later the phone rings
with numbers that sustain
the green meadow or swoon it away.
Together we worried
over my days remaining until
on a Monday Jane’s
nose bled. By bedtime, oxymoronic
poison dripped murderous
reprieve into her blood’s white water.
