Bring me the high heart of a trapezist.
If not, bring me the heart of a drunk monk
so I may illuminate an ancient text
in a language I can’t understand.
The brain too is blood, blood racing
100 miles an hour on training wheels
so let me splash through a red puddle,
let me kiss the face of a red puddle,
let me write my crazed, extreme demands
on the frost-cracked window of god’s split
chest, on the wind-fussed trees and people
outside analytically plummeting.
Bring me the zig-zag heart of a plummeting
angel straight from the bus crash. Bring me
a cup straight from the cauldron then
suture me up. The sailboat-shadow
of a sundial sweeps us all aside,
common song made your own with a pennywhistle.
Now bring me the heart of a panther
boiled in the delirium of an open wound
smelling of black sugars. Then bring me
whatever leftover twigs from the pyre
so I may make a resting place deep
in the bright-shining thicket.