get blood heart, & who
drained mine?
Poe would tell me the floor
taps an answer. Not spooky to know
who you murdered and why. And less
spooky to know they have not died, but live
in the cooperation of all things agreeing on a level of harmony,
thirds or halves or seconds of fifths or fourths or augmented sevenths,
our day of
Giotto, Masaccio, Michelangelo
sweet sixteenth
rest.