One more poem may tell me of you
you chose to stare back at the sky
with my wound bleeding before your eyes;
One more poem may be the triumph.
The clearing of meat from blood
as under a flowing tap.
and why; one more poem.
so that the poem can be hung like meat
sans all the dripping of blood
it is made of;
for the poet is the butcher
the murderer and fiend
the lover who loves
the one that loves
thirty pieces of silver
and his poem
is his meat and bone