They undressed
The Poet down
to his skivvies, down to
(can you believe?) his bright
green speedo briefs
and watched as he swam
in the cold blue
of Lake Tahoe, then
called him back to shore
where they stripped next
his skin and then
tissue and peered with
their scalpels at the machinery
that thrummed below.
They found a small
box near his left
ventricle where a smaller
hand the size of his eardrum
popped out on a spring, palm
up, revealing this
spot, the spot The Poet
received the words straight
from the sky, this hand ,
quivering open and
pinging shut and the
undressers stared at his hand
as shoals of fish
watched and
seemed to get
nowhere at all
but after the sun
slipped below the Sierras
all of them returned
to their rooms and stared
at their skin, hard,
as if the act of piercing
straight through
into their
own selves
would help
them know.