Saran-wrap all his better lines -- they'll keep
Much longer under plastic, seizure-proof
And stroke-resistant. Now that he's asleep,
His mind connects: remember the aloof,
Undamaged doctor of philosophy
Critiquing second stanzas, humbly marking
The paper with reminders; he can see
The ink, but not the words. There's nothing sparking
The coils, no chance of life past death; the brain
Is delicate, and when it dies, the poem
Is over. There's no "he" -- no faint refrain
Of personhood, just jumbled words at home
On someone else's page. He stirs and opens
Plastic eyes, dust for when the womb reopens.
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