When our organ of wonder has failed
and we our own physicians have cut it free,
washed it, packed it clean on ice,
we awaken to a rallying heartbeat
half-cheerful amid bland breakfast and flowers.
We will leave the gurney soon,
travel through hallways, elevators, turnstiles
back to our old affairs.
Anesthesia is merciful -- we cannot see again
what secret metallurgy we have done
to forge a tougher organ, indifference,
from castoff love.
But when from age our anomie cracks
and we return searching to the lab,
there we will find our grail --
a freezer bucket labeled "wonder"
stashed between the tarry hearts.
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