here on the surgery table under the tin capped incandescents there lingers the lungfuls of purpled dust motes. outside there are too many. is too much. but inside more so than all else so little left remains. bone and sinew wrap in desperate defense protecting a muscle which when opened to the airy whispers and delicate caresses needs no ward. there is no doctor who can file and crack and break away this barrier to lay in heaps the bone-tendon-sinew mass which now wraps around, strangling in child-acting-motherly embrace and lay it as heap to our side. scalpel in hand might we auto-lacerate and sop up in buckets our flood of starved blood and let in with hungry gasps breathless reality to find under the flickering sun conductor to our cadence and trill to a new rhythm that time can only rest aside and wait while eternity ticks its ways down toward nothing.