Dawn is an eminently suitable time for angels to leave the down of quilt and pillow, to slip away from the smooth cotton snug, to move further than just turning over. A loving observer said that your dark red eyelids showed thousands of glow-worm lights as they flickered. Your luminous clavicle bones trembled, widening, and your swan neck grew long.
The pale sheet bandaged around your breasts slipped allowing dark, mystic nipples oratory and your spine became a shifting spire making scarecrows beneath the sheet. Several kisses were captive on your argent forehead, but your eyelids could not be caught.
Your keeper told you that you had had a fit, convulsion, apoplexy, petit mal,grande mal. Gave you the precise time and duration, the clinical description, of your episode. Stopwatch. Jotting down notes. A part-time biologist. You told me, toying with a description like un-relished oysters or snails…
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