The Anatomy

I am the thin, long vein that runs almost to the tip of a hare’s right ear,
keeping the blood-flow going night or day ―
whatever the animal happens to feel in itself.
I enjoy
the ever so gentle physical tumble of corpuscles in circulation
and currents along the river of transparent serum
for which I am both the funnel and bed.
Dew means nothing
to me, nor jaune morning sunlight
on the mown, low hills, nor scents of the latest fox
smeared across stone. Simply, I am a single story of work
done well, an open extended invitation
to life’s micro-vital throb, to all red’s
obvious-unknowable venturous middle names.

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