15

What a contortionist is God

A man standing on the corner
—The fixed beam of the street-
Light a quality of his clothes—
Performing tricks of horror
With his pale, beautiful hands,
Reaching inside the body
And pulling out his own organs,
Holding to the yellow light
Ruby shapes of kidneys
And the coal bright heart—
Whole arm through the ribcage
To reach and clasp the skull
And turn its face to the crowd
—The lungs unfold from the torso
Like a pair of opalescent wings—
He turns the skullcase out,
Endless coloured strings of stars
Fall rippling to the pavement,
And the limp skeleton of a rabbit.

He goes up on great wings
And they call to him questions.
But he reveals no secrets.