The allegory lies on the table,
Partially brought to life, which is to say,
Dying. The allegory is dying.
The surgeon, with arms folded, contemplates.
Previous interventions came to this,
An existence extended for a bit.
The allegory is nearly breathless.
Memory’s complicated life support,
A mass of external machinery,
Does most of the work. The allegory
Gave no directive. The surgeon decides
To try once more to delay the dying.
Carefully, the surgeon slices the name
Out of the heart of the allegory.