blood bath

Deep Tarocco sanguine
Flowing steadily faucet-wise
On my back I watch my toes rise and curl
Raise my hips upon my palms and point
Up to a fleckled ceiling of swirling shadows
As the candles flicker as a whisper
escapes my lips:

"The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars"

Half in smugness for recalling the line
But most because my muscles keel
Splayed, I sink into the lapping tides
Overflowed gushing crimson makes wet
And did you know the hands are barely visible
From the bottom that is,
And that the bubbles were uniform at best
but still made an adequate beard?