Blood
has in it the intensity
of cobalt suns
crushed in measureless crucibles.
Blood has in it globules and moons
bathed in a red salty sea:
a primeval ocean.
Blood blind and deaf
apprehends the moment of truth
in a trigger about to be pressed.
Blood senses the threat
of the sharpened horns of a bull.
Tongue cannot formulate
the feel of lips trembling
on eyebrows in the lukewarm kiss
of a moving warbler,
but blood senses and intuits.
Blood transmits the heritage of human seed.
In blood there is dew and milk,
in blood there is fire
and fire in blood.
In blood the master-key.
In blood the tesserae of a mosaic.
In blood, ghosts and gods.
In blood, the past and the future
In blood, the call of the drums
resounding with the most distant days.
In blood, the tamed
blinding lightning flash
of cognition in the inspired mind.
In blood there is the muted mutter
of mountain foundations uttering electronic sound
of granite cymbals.
The silence of lazy seas
there lies in the blood,
the malice of the seas irked
by the yoke of the mind.
Sweet are the grapes of blood sucked
by mouths pursed by revenge wreaking.
Blood is the trophy
for which the bird of prey siddles with desire.
In blood lies the shudder
of the Lord’s kiss under the apple tree.
There is no logic in blood.
Blood like the owl
finds its way in the dark.