XXXI

My Blood

The broth of my blood through which I trudge

Is my bard, my wool, my women.

It is without scabs. It is enchanted, free to flow

It fills me with stained-glass windows, bits of granite, shards.

It tears me apart. I live amid its splinters.

Within my coughs, my terrors, and my trances

It constructs my castles

In the webs and weaves and stains

It illuminates.