I, boiler of beans, shiner of shoes,
sitter in chairs,
because I lived one sort of life before I knew the secret
to sawing a lady in half
and a different life after,
refuse to read anything about running
while running, lest the miracle of running
That’s what happened when I read about living.
Concocting a double-blind study
to test for evidence of love agents
smaller than pheromones,
thinking about the science of love,
which I accidentally read about yesterday,
or thinking about anything intently
leads to tripping,
having to hold out hands
as I’m baptized by ground.
If a bloody blossom
knocks on your door seeking
bandages and antiseptic, it hopes
you have neither.
What it wants you to offer instead
is some water and a vase
to be pretty
and die in.
Front page image by comedy_nose.