If only to turn the inside into the outside,
to show you everything, slice open the cadaver
and say come in,

for the cells to beckon the lens of the microscope
comeincomein, occasion yourself
to our fluid boundaries,

attach yourself to our likable surfaces.
If only to unfurl
my ever-changing walls. For you:

a pierced nipple, a cigarette case
engraved with God's initials, something
sacred something new, fragments

of a mind everlasting
seven parts to a carburetor
and three parts to an ice maker.

No question ever of sex.
Read this with a hint
of holiness: take what is given:

tonight it's the many-headed traffic signal
flashing red in bleeding fog
in front of the passing train.

What you take is the sorrow
and what you give is the alibi: your nervous
tick, your Great Barrier Reef.

Inside, at the heart-shaped center,
you find failure. Go there, give up, take
the one garden glove, the unplanted