← v11n2, Fall 2012
Poetry · Volume 11, Number 2

Thrombosis

Bits of the body migrate: bone dust

     from the crematorium, gasses

Leached from graves. But in the body

     itself, there is other breakage. The journey

Through that labyrinth is perilous.

     There are stations. None passes

Declares the angel with a sword of flame

     at the duodenum’s portal. But the great

Black gate of the heart stands open.

Enter, particle, and begin.