Every Morning

Every morning I walk through blood 

On the wooden floor up to my room, 

The blood from some poor cow.


Every morning I think Now’s the time 

To think about life and death; 

Just look at what was made of the cow’s breath.


I take one myself before ascending to my room, 

There I am consumed by the cow and the sound 

Of the cow’s innocent moo.


My breath well-spent in heaving, 

Leaving the room I think to clean the pools 

On the wooden floor from here to there. 


I scrub the entire morning, bringing bare the wood 

For my feet to feel its unstained grain 

Beneath their meditative steps.


But it’s back. When I return the next morning, 

Every morning the blood is back on my feet’s pads, 

Every morning I scrub, every morning I think.