These
lips of Mr. Tunis Flood are cornflower
Blue. I have a set of cups like that.
I bring my ear to his heart but hear no murmur,
No vibrato, no baroque flutter of blood.
I love Pathology because there's never any rush.
I sip my coffee. Think. Write, "Nipples the colors of
avocados."
(How beautiful they are in the fluorescent light.)
Time
to open and discover now the exquisite
Essence of Tunis Flood. Syringe: prick--
Vitreous humor for the fellows in the lab.
On my little radio Scarlatti plays, and when my door
Hinge creaks, it speaks. "Hello," it says. I
Concentrate.
Write, "Tardieu's spots
Bruise the livid skin. Like violets in a shade."
With my favorite knife I trace a line from heart
To chin. From sternum to pubis. I watch a man bloom,
And remove, remove. Each organ I weigh and record.
Perhaps I should have been a postman
To send my friends and lovers away,
Boxed,
in parts. Why is there wind
In this windowless room? Where is my mallet,
My chisel? There: crack.
The calivarium slides out
Like a baby. I hold your brain,
Mr. Flood, and wonder what matter
Holds back the rush of memories.
And in what soft ridge lies the vision of your death?
Get your own Free Home Page
