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.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 13 Number 5, on page 41
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