N THE BLOOD
How long does it need to be in the blood
Before it becomes poetry?
How long must it seethe ‘til it yields
A single drop reflecting new truth the old way?
How long mirroring, remembering, discarding,
Disregarding its own and other fashions
Until it forgets the watchers and turns in
To be just itself alone?
A single gnat swims unevenly
Through a still midnight room.
That is what life is, usually.
The wind outside, a faint electric hum,
The tick of clock and cooling fire.
The words sink down
A mulch of debris.
Nothing can be returned now.
It must move on and feed others,
Seek new flesh, bend new tongues.
It will pulse,
A thin capillary pull
To go on its way.
—
simonhlilly 
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