The physick of a time more violent
than these appeared once to me dream-like in
the night, and with his scalpel shivved the skin
from off my bones in narrow strips. He spent
the next night and a third deeply intent
upon the meat surrounding all I’d been
and done, remarking on my loss of vim.
The construct lives but to your detriment.
Your single hope lies now in letting all
you think you ought to feel to fall away.
Spend your days reconstituting marrow,
letting nothing but the choicest bits enthrall
your spirit who excels in idle play
unnoticed, darting weightless like the sparrow.
© Elaine Stirling, 2015