Stomach

My stomach is of many minds;
It believes everything it eats.
My eschatological
Stomach, a fundamentalist
Of sorts, grows intent
At drawing blood from
Surfaces of things:
Ice-cold fingers touch its inner lining,
It lives in fear of confusion.

The stomach clenched
Its teeth, its nose bled all day
As I stumbled through snow,
Cracking theories of poetry
Over its skull.
Gilded toothpicks,
Sweet-sour pork
Did a desperate violence
To its body.
It had to be saved, put to sleep,
But it woke early,
Still restless with envy of the resplendent
Spleen.

I will be good to my stomach,
Tomorrow; listen, and believe it
For a while. The stomach
Is serious and unhappy.
It wants to do something really
Symbolic; it wants to be
The ultimate
Stomach.