Guts on floor

not good for self-image,

so not like

x-rays in calm

black and white. What you

thought Body

turned inside

out like a glove who knew

you carried, sliding

down bunker

where concrete dust

drifts, heavy with silence;

hearing the tramp of

blood in your ears, rising -- rising –

coming on like dusk.

We’re not books, though

we can be opened.

Don’t ask

the purple sheen answers

naked as newborns. Insists

what we are