“Nothing gold can stay.” ~ Robert Frost

They wanted to know what set
the counters off, what made

the cells in his blood divide,
how it was they were wildly,

overly proliferating— And so
the doctors pulled from vein

or deep in the pith, sample
after sample. The last one

spoke of how it would feel
when the aspirating needle

punched through numbed layers:
like being tackled, like running

into the end of a pole. Fat then
muscle then bone, blunt surface

trauma paid as coin for entrance
into one dimly lit tunnel

of the body’s amphitheatre.
Within walls, fluids rush through

elaborate pipes, an architecture still
more or less the same as in medieval

times. Angled sight from peering down
a tiny scope: one end of the probe

tipped gold like a beacon, hook
upon which some meaning is meant

to return; and on a table,
quiet hum of the centrifuge.

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