Still Life

There is no record of us sitting in the bloodmobile - needle
Jutting out, taped to my arm– the quiet whirring,
The quiet rain-beat.

Amid the bustle of nurses, the smell of iodine, a pocket of stillness–
a sense of leaving. I would flow right out through the tube.
Your eyes were on the television.

If I could choose, I would be a wisp in that darkly soaked cotton of the sky,
emptied of salt, lovingly wind-strewn,
undone by eve.

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