Painted the different colors
Of the exploding circus on the shore
Of your Heaven. The crimson veins
That bleed from the clouds
Of your eyes
Were cut open at the crest
Of an accountant’s old, squeaky brain
That works for the war economy.
That’s where the ankle-deep
Treading begins. Oceans of blood. Enough
To fill a billion gas tanks.
So who gets cut, and where is the pain
Felt, if not the shared heart
Of our minds? Is it blood or Light
When a spine cracks open?
With numbers that add up
To nothing, I push the elevator button
Between the eyes
Of the accountant’s bald-headed
Hotel room. He’s standing
On desked stacks of papers
In manila envelopes. With a fork
In his hand, he’s trying to scrape
A dead serpent off of the ceiling.
A feeling that’s covering
The Light for his separate numbers
Is blood on his calculator.
