Beneath this chandelier ceiling, supine
I am cuffed. A universal donor
held by the takeaway message of blood:
that colour is history, not difference.
In a suspension of ten dreamt minutes
you appear, glinting darkly through the glass,
fingers formed like Sally Bowles goodbye wave
on a platform unlocated. Unfound
that picture of windswept hair, your blurred dress
slipping from the camber of a shoulder.
Listen. Between the closure of gristly doors
and - full force - their opening, pressure pulses
floods my heart. Its no-light chambers swelling,
even the pouch where clotted hurt clings on.
Yet all our absorbed past is cleansed before
the needle is withdrawn. Not one beat skipped.
xi. 2025
