The night before merciful gases blank
the universe, it’s a wonder
anyone agrees to let him proceed
down those gray watery canals
hidden behind an eyebrow.
He’s careful to tell how rare
an anatomical exercise turns to accident,
careful to show a confidence bred
by years of coastal navigation
piloting through the fog
of ignorance.
He shares my hope
that patients will hear how likely
the uncertain shipwreck is,
but they never do.
During that last conversation
in the office, he serves
no refreshments,
but goes through the usual litany:
this much for an eye, so much
for an alphabet,
is a right arm really worth
a few extra milligrams
of tumor removed from your brain?