WHEN YOUR HEART IS ABOUT TO STOP
White wine in the shower thins the blood.
Index finger hard against the temple vein.
Do not sleep it off. Before a thunderstorm,
when colors are severe, tilt your umbrella
and let the first drops hit your hair. So as not
to appear small, put on all your winter coats.
If you’ve waded, navel deep, into some warm ocean,
whatever lights the world doesn’t matter—
your hands are over your eyes and everything
will pass through you with expected force.
Night piano in an empty room with flagstone walls.
Run your dishwasher and washing machine
empty but add detergent. The waste leads to
domestic rhythm and phosphates
will spray warm and hard into the hollows
of your future body. Mass, but for the censer
and the smoke. True there is circular motion,
music, burned-out incandescent bulbs
and the pole nevertheless continues
through the horse’s body, but you should sit
in the one sleigh and eventually stop
feeling the circle but the point where it begins.
Photo by Bowen Vigus