Blood urge

I wonder if you know that blood urge

to knead the unformed morning into words

to indent it with three thumbprints of rhyme

and leave it alone in the bowl some time

and check its rise and fall and surge

stretch it thin and throw it into verse,

so what if it feeds into nothing?

It’s what the blood approves and craves in spring.

It’s what it wanted all through the winter

the same three marks made with cold fingers.

The yinyang summers pass, the rivers swing

the monsoons bone dry in the autumn winds

a pancake sun’s caught inside the arch

of veins and madness tucked into the heart.