The Way to Other Veins
I dig out my brain and let it find its way to other veins
like pilgrim blood. It braves the dirt, partakes in passing traffic,
knocks about in the beat of other bodies, strains itself to intervenous travel,
the elemental stab of substance, the exquisite, electric stain
of alien alternities, names and faces jumbled in the rite of passage.
The trees bloom handle-down in dirt, broom-stiff bristles softened
by the love of sun and water into tresses
that sweep the surface of my breath away with splendor,
a homing flood, an inarticulate voice that pumps my vision
full of roots, neurons burdened with the oxygenated light of proof,
fresh air that slips through its house of bone to breathe.
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Caleb Hill is a cybersecurity technician by day, a poet around the clock. His work has appeared in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal and is forthcoming in Calf Magazine, Amethyst Review, and The Penwood Review. He lives in Central Pennsylvania with his family, where he goes to church, grudgingly enjoys social gatherings, and eats too much watermelon.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 