The fellow thought he had a limestone deposit in his gut. Daily he went to this doctor or that, each of whom would say: "Your urinalysis shows nothing," or else that he was on his way to decalcinization, or that he smoked too much, his nerves needed rest, or . . . or . . . or.
He quit going to his appointments and stayed home with the
deposit . . .
(from Someone Wants to Steal Your Name, CSU Press. This poem was translated by Sydney Lea.)
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