I’m shaving winter stubble from my legs,
Slicing razor tracks across the lathered skin,
When a slick of scarlet stings my consciousness.
What do I know about my blood?
I only think about it if, as now, it oozes out of me.
Then I'm shocked into remembering
The steaming, busy world under my skin,
The me that is not me, the parts that join the whole—
Major highways, minor rivers, massive circuitry,
thermometers, alarms and guards—
And my dependence on the ceaseless, automatic processes,
The multitude of stage-hands and producers
Pushing buttons, pulling strings that let me dance.
My ignorance knows no bounds.