May #23 : Fall - by David Groff

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Table of Contents

Plastic Explosion

Who's Afraid of Reinfection?

Don't Call Him 'Poster Boy'

Saving Faces

Grandmother Theresa

Surgical Rotations

Fate Expectations

Mirror Image

S.O.S.

Mailbox-May 1997

On Native Ground

Move Over, Elmo

Devil's in the Data

Cheesehead Shalala

Don't Cry for Me, Marijuana

The Pot Thickens

Fellatio Felon

Diver Dissed

French Roast

AZT Linked to Cancer in Mice

The Philadelphia Story

Fashion Victims

Say What

Legacy-Tom Stoddard

Skin Deep

Fall

She's Going to Live!

Obitu-Parry

A Delicate Bully Pulpit

La Dolce Morte

A Delicate Bully Pulpit

Damned but Beautiful

Dressed for Arrest

POZ Picks-May 1997

Hymn to a Gym

Bodies of Work

Healing Beauty

Longtime Companion

For Doom, the Bell Tolls

Whatta Cut Up

Health Club Horrors

Detoxicology

Protein Power

The Missing Zinc

Bad Blood

Lovely Labs

The Biology of Beauty

It's My Party

Beauty



Most Popular Lessons

The HIV Life Cycle

Shingles

Herpes Simplex Virus

Syphilis & Neurosyphilis

Treatments for Opportunistic Infections (OIs)

What is AIDS & HIV?

Hepatitis & HIV


email print

May 1997

Fall

by David Groff

In New York's streets, summer's odors bloom again,
Streaking the air with piss, a season's worth
Of fatty suppers, and all the human oils.
Shirtless, reprieved and eyeing each other,
The brave one's strut, risking pneumonia.

The doctors sent Marc home as almost bones.
His mind had flaked like summer skin,
Or to be precise, the virus had blurred its distinction,
Stepping Indian file through the capillaries,
Scorching the brain's earth.

Half-blinded, he forgot the name of his disease
And lay in his bedroom, pale as sheets.
One October afternoon, the heat intense,
He just strolled into the kitchen
Amid the sunlight. He conversed with you.

Was it the heat that made him so coherent,
Amused at your hair, so fakely blond?
And what exactly made him laguh,
Palms curled around a coffee cup? He was really beautiful,
The sun washing out of the hollows from his face.

Long since stripped of hope, stunned and afraid,
You carried his wheelchair to the roof
And sat him, wrapped in a quilt, by the ledge,
All of Chelsea just beyond his knees.
Then the wind picked up, men slid on their shirts.

Clouds sprawled across the sun, smells sank distinctly
Back into the pavement, the pigeons soared off the roof
Up through new rain. For him you fell away.
Marc smiled and smiled, his eyes all light.
The chair settled a little in the solidifying tar.



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