Condition - Poem by michael pacholski
Then hold off, I pray,
the hours of death and sleep.
Do not prickle me yet with the torment
of needing voices and sickness.
Let this space and my body
be silent a while longer.
And this in particular -
please stay my hand
from paralysis swelling and cold
until I can burnish
to your liking and precise instruction
the words you have also granted me.
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