imagine night has discovered in us
a ghost to be traced in blood and water
a loathsome dream stomping in on a truss.
some disease fiddles up at the altar.
yet we doubt that we saw what we did
and only a pain in the back confirms
the sighting. before in grief - out slid
a stone - shot silt. now the sandglass is turned
and cuts blood as we find that we bleed
on the sly. death is a menarche that comes
after the pause - and we men too read
our nature in an open vein - not scum
or fluid cloud. what economy
in death’s shows what fine-grained phlebotomy.
4 October 2021