“how T.S. Eliot Would Bleed” Poem by Micheal Valencia

I saw my blood the other day:
The wound was inflicted by a
Sharp object to the upper part of my arm,
The lower part of my shoulder;
The blood commenced to run down my lower arm,
Traveling over the tricep,
And settled indecisively at the edge of my elbow;
After tentative trickles,
The blood flowed over the tip
In rapid profusions at random intervals;
Intermittent fluidity gave way to
A continuous stream;
First the blood speckled itself upon the ground
In indiscriminate spots;
Soon the bloody dots found themselves coalescing into
A single crimson pool;
The exsanguination of my upper arm stopped in due time;
I stood in place;
I gauged the pool’s progress—
It lied briefly in stagnation,
It resumed a dynamic character as it coagulated,
And then it sat,
Hard,
A turgid form upon the stiff ground:
And I smiled as I conceived some metaphysical
Views concerning the passage of time,
Which that injurious occurrence enabled me to
Engender.
(I still have the scar.)