Sometimes I think I might
just drain my blood myself.
I've never like technicians
touching my body
I could say good-bye to the trees, the sky,
the great bend of the horizon,
shut all the windows
turn down the thermostat.
I could comb out my hair like an aura,
wipe the color from my skin until it's cold blue,
with a twilight of white scars.
Release the cargo of the heart--
(the quick little hands of fear,
dove-like in flight),
return the last of the air,