Sunday, January 5, 2014

The Stethoscope By Anne Winter

 




You curl beneath the black cup on mu skin:
I guess at limbs in half-eclipse, obscure
and fluent as a distant telegram.
Unworldly, small, sealed orders, darkroom heat,
Soon among the signals pulsed, the static whoosh,
arrives in distant thuds your rapider than human
heartbeat-gender unknown-but eyes-
.
Yet of our world you only know the tree
you lie beneath, its root your belly, fronds
and villi falling in the sunken lake
of capillaries, bubbles, breathing bonds...
I sigh, and somewhere you incline your vast
night-sighted brow-
your jointed, swimming hands-
Like Helen's comet, bending on its tail,



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