Light through the blinds
sprays the gray wall-
paper. The sonographer
hunts for things
that could kill me,
her wand wheezing
like wind in a cave until
she squeezes my calf
and a heartbeat leaps
on-screen. Vessels vibrate
beneath the heat
of a device running
down my thighs. To pass
time, I make the alphabet
a game (a is for antibody;
b for blood; c, coagulate;
d, another dawn ...), multiply
tiles massing the ceiling
then return, finally, to
the papered wall
whose twiggy whisps
race toward some unseen
spring, their knobby
ends clotted with little
red knots that burst
one by one into view.
theatlantic.com