I don’t like to use the worn out word
“bruise” in my poems, but this morning
one appears on my inner thigh
like an unwelcome cliché. A hypochondriac
would see these broken vessels as a death
threat, but I stay calm, accepting
my end will come, perhaps on an autumn
day like today, when I am the only doctor
in the house. Practice has taught me
to keep my distance, suppress anxiety,
and to know I will arrive at the diagnosis
if I relax and focus, like the way I know
October when I smell oak leaves
and see scarlet light, from the music
wind scrapes with half-frozen limbs.
