Here is the sacred heart, from which we bleed
our passions, cut lengthwise for your best view:
its chambers, laid open; its veins feed
used life to be recycled back from blue
to red, the sign of breath that filters in
and rides the pressure wave of every pulse
to body's farthest reaches; oxygen
is borne to brain. Now, watch the heart convulse
as Cupid's arrow spears the fleshy grain
between the caul and chamber: here, the barb
pushed through the other side would bring less pain
than would pulling it out, once struck. The garb
of scientific distance cannot dress
the vessels' exposed endings, though we press.