Syncope

Syncope

On Shoe Lane,
the world fades.
My knees give way.
I tilt forward,
then

I swim in ether;
that sickening, sweet
smell presses up
through my nostrils.

Time is displaced
till voices return
as cruel consonants:

“Stand Back! Stand Back!
Give him some air!”

Pain pulses,
my brain splinters,
and my eyes open.

“Don’t try to get up.”

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