Diagnostics

,

.

Snow blindness

from the incantations

of sterile skin

& results.

Water stoops

for diagnosis

like the cellophane

around the bunched

flowers of my autumn.

The boiler is lit.

My heart again

is indigestible.

I cannot cut myself

from facts.

It is cold &

the trees are all dying,

their bark

soft & black

as rotten meat.

If you are alive

one year from today

I will ring brass bells

& do something dramatic,

like drink a glass

of water.