Blue Infusion

It was not love that endedin a conception, but a rebelcourse of the self, grown outof control into a universeof its own—new arterioles, sleekknots of veins to feed what is, in essence,more of me, transfixed beneath a bowlmy bones make of my neck, an angrylung fugitive.The treatment room todayappears a darker shade of gray, and the wallsfeel plump with picture frames of riverbeds—an unwanted reminder of a smootherpassing, the endlessness of water bodieslike itinerant souls; being, in a way, a tougher distractionfrom my body's reckless arithmetic.

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