My body is the offering
to be harvested, bottled, and cultured.
I lie about smoking to keep something to myself.
Sharp earthworm –
the needle is an instrument of harvest
wielded to vint me like wine by a philosophical phlebotomist.
As his earthworm burrows, the philosopher expounds:
“Panache is what evokes hunger and color.”
He vints me. Like wine from a stone, nothing flows.
Nausea overthrows my consideration of blueberries and salmon.
Panache is syncope is static.
Gray clouds fill the curtained space.
My world is a confusion of semaphores
the gray clouds fill.
I give up my greasy sweat.
My world is confusion –
I cannot will myself to bleed!
I give up my consciousness.
Panache is semaphore is sanguine.
It seems I
keep something for myself.
Blood is the sanguine semaphore of
my body, the offering.