The coma-waking Blake of Saturday’s constitution

quickly darting steps beneath the cold exterior of this wooden carved heart
like asperous, but delicate, tones of ones and threes in the paddles
where mercenaries feed their dues with the desires of walking ankles,
too much trouble for the docile, too much treatment for the cancer
too much gratitude for the coma-waking Blake of Saturday’s constitution,
when a body bag is not in your future you are cursed to this trial,
this inconceivable waking gift of misery and suffering hip joints,
like stomachs on roller derby sirens and migraines in the shaking, departed stick,
there are no more terebinths in the staking regression of winter’s stock mask,
all alone and facing the discomfort like young adults face their hormones,
one strategic session at a time, one borrowed pantry, and awaiting the last shift