Platelets just another way to die
of lack, I bled out small.
I spotted. Every movement a microtear

in the blood vessels, a pinhead bruise
like rust on a pylon,
like asphalt under first rain,

the wallpaper freckled with mildew,
a field of poppies
observed from a great height…

Transient, likely, the hematologist said
and I bummed a decade
off futons, guest rooms, a vehicle, living well

below the poverty line.
At night a lover could trace where
my constellations had faded.

If I was ever beautiful
it was then: a sunset by Seurat,
a thousand red doors

unlocking all at once, the air
asleep on the lawn, releasing its dew.