The surgeon's eye looks into mine,
the fluorescent light halos his head.
I fall asleep, and still I see my bed,
my body there, the gray-clothed forms like mimes
around me, watching the surgeon slice
inside my mouth. His hands are red.
The surgeon's eye looks into mine;
the fluorescent light halos his head
as he stitches the cuts with fishing line.
I am hungry. I want to be fed
plums. I am hooked up with tubes, instead.
My bruises throb: I wake to find
the surgeon's eye looks into mine.
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