What is this thing we all obsess about:
strings of protiens forming fibers,
brilliant red of blood rushing thru
walls and ventricles, arteries,
blue veins and motion like
the felx of a lover’s hand
on your flesh. What is the ache
of being wrong about love compared
to waiting in sterile blue stainless steel
chairs, the pulse of flourescent
lighting and waiting for a surgeon’s smile?
After the tip of a scalple rips
thru the thick walls of an organ,
after waiting to know odds of survival,
after this true fear, what is anything.