What I know mostly
About blood has nothing
To do with rivers
Or brothers or turning
Into something splendid—
A red bull on a wall.
The dog that bit me
Was simply a dog. No fates
Skirled their antlers
Above my brow, though
I bellowed wordless rage.
Looking down I saw
The ripped veins rilling
From my thigh: steady
As a stream from a faucet.
Around me the green world
Went unchanged, fields
Falling away from me
Back along either roadside,
The skull-faced cattle
Staring blankly back
My way. When I finally
Reached home my shorts
Were soaked with blood,
Daubed with perfect little
Globules of gristle
And slick with something
Like grease. I looked
A long while into them,
Thinking this is me,
And thinking how nothing
But love had ever
Carried me into the body
Of such knowledge before,
Unreasoned and yielding
To whatever the meat-
Sorrow or pain or beauty.
Coming into the Body
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