is a lot like death:
an instinct,
a drive;
it's where
the fever
started
and where
it broke;
it's those embers
that refuse
to go out.
As you return
from your weekend
with your genitals
intact think
of the carving knife
and the surgical precision
possessed by the hand
having Parkinson's
and thank
the gods
for the good luck
of making it
this far.
Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011
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