For every peony, fifty ants.
For every waxing hive, a bear.
For each blossom the broodfouled
bee sticky with fungus, bumbling.
For every gut, a bot. For your beating
heart, the surgeon’s stent.
A brass knuckle on each finger,
in every nose a brass ring.
Dust in both your blue
irises, planed from a stubborn plank.
For each stump an ax, and for every ax
handle, a falling tree no one hears
before it rolls like a thoroughbred
over the jockey—
for every anxious hero sniffs
the plumed riderless horse
that will carry his empty boots
backwards in the stirrups.