We cream them and for that receive 
the bloodied weapons of our enemies 
ruined in battle. A little funeral 
wells up. My job is: clean the weapons. 
But at night I go to bed, just like you, 
with a firming gel beneath my eyes
to retard the aging process. What about dignity
and preparedness? Processes, loosenings. 
Beneath the eyeing shine I try them on. 
Part of night. Puddle water. New funerals 
dot the landscape like black mushrooms. 
Don’t get too comfortable, they said, a month 
into the job. Blood is powerful because it is 
a host to so many things, primarily 
imperative. It floods the eye. You hurry 
toward it. Lick the style from its form. 
This makes you, in turn, a little more nowhere. 
What else makes its home in blood? 
Confusion, crescendo, desperation. I walk 
to the park and eat lunch beneath the statue 
of Saturn, devouring his children. His eyes 
bulge. It isn’t everyday I think about his pain. 
Frozen, he looks nauseated. 
Uncomfortable. A funeral of oil.