The signal fell from the
pot, with a knocked drop
like Wellingtons in rock pools.

There was no sound: the
fuschia-black tint of its
skin in this half-light

hid the blue, purple
spread of the blood. The under-
geared lungs chuckled into

motion, breathing a rose glow
into the slow cells. They
took him away, fired vitamin

K into a pipit-small heel,
and returned him to the tired
icy room. He slept like a baby.

John Gimblett

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