8am at melbourne pathology

and already it's over,
the nurse and needle withdrawn,
your forehead hot with foreboding,
a whisper in your ribs that
something has been forgotten,

and though you tell yourself
'don't look', you spy the vials.

and you know of no-one
who can say with certainty
that they've ever seen a thought,

who can prove without doubt
that thoughts might be borne not
by brain but by blood;
the sort of temporarily rich

blush of thoughts that could
be drawn out of you and
           might look back - 

might breathe fog onto test tube
glass, as if to savour the impossible
sight of you fading into life,
before you escape August

and ward, wander
into unimaginable
season

 

An unpublished poem from 2015/16

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