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.

Blueberries, salmon?
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.

February, 2016

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