poem: driving home from the – i lost count – appointment

i come down the cliff into the sore-bitten song
of myself — in the car, here is Youth Aesthetic, the desert in wide
sunlight smile without teeth, the college at the far end of town
and swiveled out with trees, roads that lead upward and
wrap beyond sight. i would cry for myself before; now it is numb
hardness, clavicle clench of knotness; please tell the primary care doctor
about the repeated infections and the susceptibility of your corpus
to somethingsomething raw and red. and the word converts, magic
and meaning, into: you are sick with something. until then you
do not walk, do not breathe properly or stretch consistently; the wedding
comes in – speed of a suicide from great heights – unless i can bring myself
perfect and clean. wipe my body down and take the proper
things, i cannot come cum or crawl good down the aisle with organs
so turned-out, arrayed cruelly against me; please Lord if this
is not too much I would like to be whole.