Taper me by slivers
down to the bone
make every inch hurt
from the first flake of skin
to the last crack of marrow,
accurate and exacting
organs abound
neatly in their place
forever caught between
thin sheets of glass
bloodless but sanguine
in their immortality.
Split them for your own
science or pleasure;
look at them, look at me,
look at you, flying in between
my hips and dreams,
my screams and lunch,
my brain and shoulders,
my hands and love;
find the music inside me
draw breath from your nostrils or
just draw my nostrils,
sketch my winding globular soul.
Then reassemble my surgical home
and wholly see my painted smile
eyes shut in what I believe
is the heaven-ascension,
a portrait dream
of a white smocked-God,
my ichor rivers still running
down his beautiful body,
a cloud in the sky rifts open
and I am sent up slide by slide.
The fragments of my lambent heart
pulse light between the breaking glass.
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