There is blood on the ground.
Every effort, every step
more than metaphorical,
blood of man or blood of beast
this year or last.
A boy's broken nose once
bent in neighborhood sport,
or a rabbit's full measure,
even now lost, forgotten,
locked in a dim recess
spurred once from predator appetite.
Drops or gouts
blood on this spot
is or was, blood has flowed
of what is fragile,
forewarning us of the waiting hand from above or behind,
our short-lived stint wasted or worn,
on this weigh station to eternity.
There was blood
at one time
on this very spot,
this patch of earth,
square parcel on our circling globe
hurtling curved thru dark-edged space,
light here at the gravity pull,
skipping wet rock like it flees to forget,
or ignore, bypass what waiting warmth,
what heat would bake my blood free
and give me end,
or change me to a higher form.