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

diminish.
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
while running
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.