I've had this dream: an animal has fingers.
It rests on its side, I observe it from the back,
Its head is bent forward as though it were
Timid, and it rocks back and forth in light rhythm.
With blank, mechanical motions
It rummages through the rupture, its fingers
Carefully sorting the tissue and looking for veins.
They pluck them one by one to make them easier to hold –
the veins are thin, but sturdy, like the wires inside of an electrical network –
and tear them strenuously, one after the other.
The animal works soundlessly, it's almost immobile, slowly
And thoroughly it cuts the intake of pulsation to the heart
That's closing whimperingly, like the veil of an animal's pupil parts.
The space around it is emptied, drenched in a pool
Of the slithering blood it cannot and wants no longer to control.
The coat of its skin is stretched on the skeleton like a tent
Flaccid in the springtide breeze, in its front like scattered luggage the stranded organs lie.
The animal gasps for air (the body is a machine), it listens,
Contracts, shrivels, extends its inflamed fingers,
And it freezes triumphantly.