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.