almost all my poems are about the same thing
To enter the bright room, you must duct tape your eyes shut.
You must buy a clean tray with blue rubber and sterilize the pins.
You must have gentle hands
and a sense of smell.
The bright room is full of muscle.
Be careful peeling string from bone, pulling the mantle out.
Scrupulously you must cut out your scruples.
All atria open, ventricles ventilated, valves valved.
You will not know what is what.
You will float like a preserved organ in a pool of caustic light.
You will be stored.
Light will be let in.
I always hope never to leave.
But the tables must be cleared.
The juices cleaned.
I come back.
I have grown pale.