JUST BLOOD

 

It happens, opening a tin,

it’s just an instant and you cut

the tip of your forefinger,

the sharp edge rips in

and it’s at once a gash

and your dark red soul spills.

It was very ready just underneath,

now it seems to escape so eagerly,

flooding in rivulets from within,

keen on staining the world

expanding in any casual Beyond.

It has happened so fast,

the sign maybe of how we can pass.

In a blink of an eye

your astral body looks

smeared everywhere,

table, chair, a trail on the stairs,

you sense the thin

precarious boundaries of your being.

Until you find a way to staunch at last

what is after all just a tiny opening,

maybe less than an inch of a chink.

Touching it you feel the shine

of your most hidden nakedness,

your fundamental liquid nothingness

over the bones, those just a little

emancipated stones.

By then you try to smile

at how it goes unsaid

the fragility of life.

And feel glad enough

discovering you can still write.

Although the plaster on your forefinger

softens the touch too much

and distances you from each key

showing how easily the world can recede.

So, only the old lessons remains,

the only choice on this side:

stay in silence, listen to the river within,
to the closeness of its far cry.