Ostracism's Song To Pussycat

the foul breath of the lower mouth
becomes a jewel
jewels can't be cut
except with special tools
you had to cut me open
i was so closed

the blood of a rose

pick out all the crud that's in the eyes,
shove out the mud around your heart,
tear through my flesh;
now there's nothing left

of me

the foul breath of the heart
is the best part

(as if a poem can be a key to that which contains buried treasure)