Some things have to come out

he’d say, a sack full of stones

or the growth on your forehead

obscuring your sight.

But some things are better left,

to carry, until you die, 

the blood red liver, for instance

overrun with flowering buds.

He kept that

pressed near his heart

a thorny bush

spreading  branches inside.

It stayed, in situ, with the rest, 

his blighted knee, his hands,

his piercing intellect, 

his untameable hair.

All of it burned

in the great fire

and then we scattered him

among the roses.