Summer 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 3 Poetry |

Insulin Shock

Dying again and the blood secedes into my brain, which becomes a yellow globe, a red bulb on its ceiling throbbing with some other life:  a cell  of stones  a man there  waiting to be hung  looking out the window This is just one instance And when I return to my body pressed tight multicolored alive who can I tell? We all have our deaths. Today I can't laugh at them as God does: a ripe unfurling of yellow kernels from a corncob the falling a resonance before and after me husking off each death

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