The coarse music in the background,
a vapid tease nibbling on her ear.
Hair wet from the fantastical downpour.
Clenched toes considerably directed downward.
Shoulders slumped and legs pasted like stamps
against the icy stirrups.
One hand clasping a fan,
the other providing the wind and pulse
through the doctorís fingers
as she feels the outward thrust
of the head and eyes toward
the sky blue walls or maybe her thighs
because they are just as clear, just as inviting.
The concerned relatives, flowers and blood
crown the hairless extremities
which like clouds float aimlessly
on an epidermal current.
Mother-in-law and son argue
the name to the side and back
as from the belly horizon,
two hands raise some screaming guts
toward a nest of curves.
Beyond the towel the connection anticipates.
They will fall asleep to it.
The touch will seem to the doctor
and nurses to last hours.
They will stand back because for this
there can be no other reaction.
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