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 archof veins and madness tucked into the heart.