A pitbull devours peeled grapes from a visitor’s hand,

Intended for a swan. 

Visitors carry fidelity in dusted vases.

Swans poke their beak inside to remind visitors who they are.

In a house,

Lungs are the window.

Mouth, the veranda.

Organs, vases on shelves in rooms. 

Visitors are light.

Swans are lighthouses.

Visitors atop, a ballerina on a jewelry box.

Unaware they twirl on a head. 

                 ***

The visitor searches

Until a bullet hits the abdomen.

Falling sea level still,

You run to overcome a blooded message. 

There’s a problem to be solved and you can’t know because you’re not dying. 

So you can only tell the hospital staff it's your birthday.

The stuffing bullet.

The tempest bullet.

Birthday bullet. 

                    ***

The nurse is a cat licking your wound. 

The tongue, a message starting to seep in. 

You hold tissue to your side because your stomach understands. 

You need your hand held. 

                      ***

There is a three fold poster board for your privacy. 

A decaying wreath 

Slouching on the upper right side with 

The dog shot you, written on one of the leaves. 

A mirror tucks itself behind the foliage. 

The nurse warns you not to look there once the operation commences. 

In the mirror you may see an inoperable lighthouse, 

Where the swan abjures you as a visitor.

Eyes on the green board. 

                   ***

The abdomen is a hospital room. 

It’s your birthday, 

You will always be a visitor.