When held up to the light, these capillaries
Fool the eye.
Although once engorged, their viscosity lessened
To leave a most delicate cityscape, bird-skull brittle,
A mess of empty tubes, roads of filigree stitch,
A new network for another life, built
By tiny human hands.
Let me spread this wider, show the map
Of coronary cartography built on air
Filled in by dust-fine dry papyrus
Buried beneath contracted tissue
And pulsing: Once, twice.
This crackling fern bone, this bracken
Tightly wound for miles and hidden
In a box,
To sip, to gulp at that which
Flows between our old hands.