I watch us all now--all of us, but mostly
my own strange face in the mirror--
as if we are bleeding.
We are in the bleeding stage of living.
The pouring out phase.
Life is pouring from us in red, thin, swirls
like the red juice of boiled beets
down the kitchen drain.
Our bodies now as warm, as soft, as sleepy,
as pungent as those easy to slice,
those tender beets.
After the bleeding only a stain remains,
only a red blemish is left of all our red
hot desire now gone.
I turn all night with that thought.
