Miscarriage
Little yolk, fly-speck, web unworked, detail without name, unlatch yourself from me, go. In your small submersible, your thousands of cells have stopped beating. I felt their tappings like braille on a quaking bog: a faint print, then none. Go, almost thing, the sundews have opened their sticky pink mitts to catch your brothers, and soon the cranberries will float red on the harvesting pond. (This, too, will come to an end.)