Poem

Anticipated Stranger,
by John Ashbery
as read in The New Yorker

the bruise will stop by later.
For now, pain pauses in its round,
notes the time of day, the patient's temperature,
leaves a memo for the surrogate: what the hell
did you think you were doing? I mean...
Oh well, less said the better, they all say.
I'll post this at the desk.

God will find the pattern and break
it.