Written in Blood

What was blood

but a dream circulating,

so that the stars

would swing, and the

wind of the breath would

move, and the mind

would wake to a temporary

knowing that seemed endless?

Why was blood

spinning on course, if

not to make the body

and time seem endless,

to make gravity what

the heart was called to,

the in and out of the voice

itself, that calling

back to the world and

blood running to greet it?

Where was blood going

when it described those

orbits that a life is,

that perfect cycle that

a circle is, as pure as

the moon and as filled with

a light, the red glow

that the blood shines inside

us, so that every word

Structure

27 lines · 7 stanzas