"Love Song, with Removed Cyst"
Briefly

Then we're lying on the bed, in our clothes, in the overcast, after he has had the cyst removed from his knuckle... He lies on his side, I lie on my back, he keeps the hand elevated on my breast.
I am sane as a level, sane as the level bubble in its greenish indoor pool. I am sane as a scissors, sane as a sieve, sane as a scales, sane as a gyroscope...I am sane as a friend, sane as a dream.
Read at The New Yorker
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