Fred Coe, MD
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Come, night, at morning skilled hands cut this wrist,
Alter channels that blood once racing pure,
Now unclean, in arterial floods enter
Veins, pound, stretch them, thicken walls that bulge, twist
To ripe blood sausages needle points burst,
Let quick blood run out, be laved, return pure,
Reeking of machine. Manacle, sign, scar,
Pain's badge, my mark unto the final rest,
Let me hide from you in one last sweet dream,
Remember fingers petaled on this stalk
Ringed in amulets, cuffed in Venice lace,
Held high in dance to catch a candle's gleam;
My love, take my hand now in
Fred Coe. Vespers. Ann Intern Med. 1992;117:615. doi: 10.7326/0003-4819-117-7-615_1
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Published: Ann Intern Med. 1992;117(7):615.
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Print ISSN: 0003-4819 | Online ISSN: 1539-3704
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