THE CONTRAST PORTION OF YOUR MRI
A crimewave could enter your needle puncture,
crosshairs drawn on the machine's ceiling.
Given scrubs, shower-cap shoes, not the gown
you expect. Pay before the tunnel turns hospital
terracotta. An hour ago you assigned "The Petrified
Man," belt abetting teacher pants. The Hungarian
opthoneurologist corrects your pronunciation
of Bartók, sheet music for his Viola Concerto
fastened to your refrigerator by ions less
god-like. Radiology rug, you've made
a tuning fork of the head. A mega-magnet
interpolates dye the color of inkjet
jaundice. Toppled silo's conveyor
threshes gray-matter caress.
* * *
IT'S A PETOSKEY STONE,
I think of my eye photograph on the surgeon's screen,
macular abnormalities simmering retinal yolk.
Nobody outside Michigan cares about the Petoskey stone,
pebble glorified to passage rite. See one skip one,
peninsular youth complete. Outside Mississippi
the nearest specialist for my diseased eye
practices in New Orleans. He's booked Mardi Gras
on. Some want the king cake, I want to read
normally again. Chartwork—sounds nautical—
anchor lodged in sclera. Hematite, your touristy
luster usurped by asparagus stands during beach
season. I promise not to stare at the sun
&nbp; &nbp; on Michigan license plates
bridging my vision changes each week.