(i.)
If what you want’s a vulgarity
of gore, I’ll give you my open-heart
(ii.)
surgery. Ribs fractured, a snow-
on-crimson scarlet ibis wing-drying
(iii.)
in the insatiable sun of the medical lamp.
(iv.)
What is and isn’t
for sale: red-breasted
(v.)
organs and portraits, whatever I do
you’re going to take it—
(vi.)
everything—away from me
before the five-note chime even strikes
(vii.)
the start of the plenty-colored
furious jubilee.