San Francisco's cold
is not crisp. Maybe
North Dakota's is --
I don't know.
This flows with your blood,
seeps into your bones,
chilling cell, soul
and marrow
Where an alien life
metastasizes into a fingerhold
on the lymph nodes.
Glioma, shadows
On the brain. Men's
shadows roam across the walls,
the ceiling, and outside
the windows.
A radiation suited-figure
waves his hand, and in a gloating,
self-assured voice,
informs me that soon I shall die.
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