Word Cycle #2: Meditations
2 June 2004
Vol. 4, No. 2
poetry, prose poem
There is a quick breath after the accidental cut and before the blood wells up, pain red as a poppy, the body a font unto itself. Thinking too hard on biology, anatomy, the course of history, I am amazed I stand here breathing. Where is the invisible, intricate clasp of my undoing?

