Masterwork

I give over, undoing my belly-button
like a knapsack, snaking out my intestines
before the rest pours out of its own gravity—
splashes of bile, the soft thud of the liver,
a lung, wet and papery. Here all valves open
and close, muscles contract, and you see the heart

tumble to the top. Though others will count
the pieces and catalogue destruction, you untie
your bundle too, flooding the heap
with more fluid and organs, a vast ugly stew.
The parts tie themselves into stronger
triangles, form a great, dripping tower filled
with nothing but energy, the crash

of drop against drop, fleck on fleck: brightness.
See our building—strong, shiny, almost on fire
as pieces grind, pull together arches, anchor
stones in place. Watch without thumping blood
or greedy lungs this labor of a universe. We
liquefy, fuse inside the tower like epoxy: spinning,
spinning, hot on our own intangible axis.

Touch then—our building moves, expands,
the terrific mixture turns around an internal sun,
gathers mass and speed. How marvelous
to be fully realized in each turn, yet call light
into dark, and know how whole can become further
whole. We are the flash of the dancer’s leg, the slice
of the painter’s shadow, and the effervescent sway
of a black hole. We are the thing that can’t be taught.