Day Surgery

By | 2 February 2001

In the frozen morning
he washes
his hair, skinfolds

binds in stiff sheets
mutinous breath

cries down corridors of sleep
for her white back,

the surgeon takes
fifty grams of flesh.

In the certainty of pain
he wakes,
she is there,
her fingers in his wound
her thirst on his tongue,

in the thaw of afternoon
they go home.

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