[at this point
an almost intellectual question;
my heart is over in the corner
drinking scotch and keening to itself]
Looked at from one angle
it's surprising I've been spared
the black wreath on my door for quite so long.
Do they still call it serioconversion?
He calls it pneumonia,
explains the PICC line and the catheter,
the machine to drizzle drugs into his veins;
tells me the story of an envious junkie
the day he rolled his sleeves up without thinking.
As with the others, like Cassandra,
I have seen the end -
I do not flinch (not much)
at his preface
that he thinks I can handle
what he tells me.
I stand outside myself.
I bear the whip-marks gladly.
Another endless twilight
of the Plague Years has begun.