Proof of Life
Last night I sliced
Open my chest
Leaned over my desk
And let my heart flop out
Onto the page
It thumped and bled for a bit
Until the paper stained through
And I was long enough empty
I scooped it up and shoved
The thing back inside quivering
I shut that sodden chapter
Splattering
And wiped my hands on my jeans
So there we sat
Disfigured and dripping
I ached, but was alive
I stood up, and walked away
I should, go back today
And save those pages soon
Before they dry and congeal
Stick together and conceal
That sanguine proof
I once let loose
-A.R.
Island by Michael Sanderson
sometimesihatemycat 
… but how wonderful that it GOT onto the page!; let it conjeal!: poetry is supposed to be 3D
Yes, I was reminded recently how much I love poetry that bleeds…even more than poetry that blooms. A flopping heart on the page, what a wonderful event.