Blue blood

His blood was blue and glistened as
It poured out of the meander
       In his hip. It ran parallel to the margin
Of his underwear, the crevices and tracks of rubbled skin—elastic imprint—and where
Underneath opened up the dark unknown, that stark thing
Which could and would make you feel
so small and startled, could wash
Over and under
You
As though you were laying on a river bed looking up at whatever it is that swirls
Above and in your skin, eyes, nose, mouth.
You, still breathing; the mark which
Cleaves to his skin shines with a nebulous plasma, immune to the miasma of a dirty
fingerprint which might dip
itself in that bright blue gash and paint with it a swirl, a big
meandering
       curve across a page,
or a piece of glass which you could look at under a
microscope, catching the things that were falling out from the curve of his body, where
you’ve sat and stargazed for hours before.