Sick and Selling Gems
The witnessed cough is milk and mucous covered.
He coughs again, clears.
"Uh, the amethyst I gathered near a quarry inó"
Upheaval. Eruption. With mumbling crumples
of the tissue, he straps his hands to his sides, pauses,
then more deep coughing.
That packs their worries, the women who wait.
He clears his throat, a heap of baking cornfields lifted,
or putrefying steppe-land entrancing up a deadly spark.
The tensed veins lob and bristle slow, and damn
the pulses with a nude scrape; disease has colted
its hoof-kick run, and turned a latch down his throat.
"Excuse me. Uh, the amethyst. I found it near..."
His cough subsides, the air is clear,
and the wolf-breasted ladies before his table harden
as the very crystals they finger.
Again, they consent to draw the air, but leaning off.