“I’m sorry” (the aluminum clicks of a walker’s kiss scuff up this linoleum universe, an acidly sterilized) “we don’t” (air bleaching breathing into stifled hacks from out of polite lungs. A sniff, a limp, a tightness around the temples: admissions of the unwinding ways down that) “have a patient” (strip wind out of our bodies and snuff galaxy from behind our eyes, sending stillness past selves and illnesses and incap
Vanessa
