one minute i think i'll be ok. riding my bike, i feel almost proud, that my body will still rise, and can still heal. then when my rounds are done and everything is still but the long freight trains and the radiator clicks and whispers, the night itch comes, and the little wounds in my hands that won't heal, wince like sore little eyes. it's so mysterious, and so unlike my skin, to haunt me, and never heal. what i took for granted, the ordinary word, heal, sounds like magic now.