Autopsy of the Elephant

I have cut the pericardial sac.
The heart is babbling a story.
Now he is the sum of his parts,

an inventory. Look:
I’ve opened the dome of the head
and cracked apart a dream.

The spirit is stuck between
his molars, a forgotten
toothpick. A typewriter

rattled behind the ribcage once –
we can tell by the dents here.
The lungs are chimney stacks

clogged with soot. A carton
of Marlboros was found
on his person. There’s so much

elephant to burn. Loads
of coal needed for the furnace.

The elephant is gone, the smoke
is here, the smoke is gone.