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.

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