cruor

I’m newly
sweltering with love
for it,

that gore so
tenacious
and hardy with life,

so purple and vivid
and livid
with it.

rushing
through its conduits
syrup-sweet and viscid.

a fixed violet strain

neither stain nor contagion

but the very innermost
guts
of the thing—

the thick, dark,
sure roots of it.

the bits of it
that shoot and sprout.

the bits of it
I’ve tried to rout.

but blood will out.

and blood will out.
and blood will out
and out
and out.