I had never noticed that the glass tray
staggers rather than flows in its slow
mechanical circle. The souvenir mug

I just brought home from the imaging
center is adorned with a dark dome
of skull turned in profile.

It responds to heat by revealing a frail
outline of brain, spine and cord
which fades as the drink cools.

In less than an hour, technicians tracked
a pattern viral damage scattered like spoor
in the crust of my brain.

Silent, they looked away from a wall
of light and gazed into grim distance.
For all we know the body still holds

its secrets close. What is lost, I think,
is hoarded where nothing remains
to be seen.

Vapor rises from my bitter drink,
twining as it is caught in a late
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