Here's what I've weaned from the previous post, the dream.2 (don't you love that word - weaned?)

BMrs. Ramberry of the Ramberrys
From North Dakota will scream
For an epidural and
Nurse Figazzato (who will
Die two days later from the heat)
Will shake his head and say
Too late, too late. I hate being
A man nurse.

Ten hours later, they will miss
The opportunity for a clean cut
Because my tiny little fist
Will want to taste the air
Though my feet remain twisting
in murk and darkness.

I will think to myself - It is nice,
this a warm place. But
Nonsense.
There is something else out there.

Then, Mrs. Ramberry’s vaginaskin
Will tear open with each
Of my wrigglings, like a shirt
ripping at the sleaveseam as
the flesh of a giant plum
bursts through - thin, purple, wet.

But as for me, I will only hear
The whoosh of suction and passing.
I will open my mouth
At the writhing world

And come out laughing
And clean.