He didn’t want the EKG. He didn’t want To know. But the nurse attached Its greasy patches to his chest to read. From which all things spray violent And out, there is a point of singularity. In Michelangelo’s sculpture of the heart, For instance, the heart wears the costume Of David’s body. In the eyes of the Judean There is no fear of what the heart has made. You are going into cardiac arrest, this nurse said. That’s when he saw the thing the other way: Something mute sat like a stone Inside the clenching and unclenching of his heart. He had the stone. Only it would pay attention.
"An Insistent and Eager Harmoniousness to Things"
Like an enormous leech the pancreas lies with its head tucked into the duodenum, upside down, the tail outstretched over it, an animal curled in on itself. In the preserve jar of the belly, it wriggles like a strange, medieval cure. When we sleep, Anicka, the pancreas secretes its juices, reverting tonight’s toutlerre into Germanic syllables again: cake, meat, blood. All of this healing is out of our hands. I turn to you, completely unconscious. Completely unconscious, you turn to me.