The Fruits of Contemplation, by A. F. Moritz

The body of the ocean with
genitalia of water evaporating
engenders a prospectus of cancer
in his lover far away:
                      "What
behemoth like a rising cyst
puts its back up in the belovèd
skin cut by my ships? And that
new island with its central hole,
belching into the open bag of blue
as foully as a hospital: down in it
is the brown polyp of a heart
boiling like stew, its thick rind
exploded continually by bubbles and dire
borborygmi.
                      Yet the sea still rains
over me and in dirty rivers
of my sweat and his excess my makeup
runs down to him. I will expose
all my surface, exterior
and interior alike, and moisten
every part of me, lest in
the vibration of this heat my eyes
fall into me like fragments
of the broken sun.
                      Again
the clouds drift over me, far inland
my eyes turn green in the shadow,
the ground smooth, the quincunxial
vegetation like a clipped park. Not even
the seabirds know it, perched
on my fingernails, if you are
dead as the acid-eaten staring
fish you wash up constantly
into my palms’ pink basins.“


This is a very good poem, but I am posting for its truly yucky biological imagery. Ick.