The heart is sudden and cryonic, but most forget
she entered the breast’s development secretively.

A thing of dual imagination, thought pile of intricate flake.
But she’s vituperative to loss: The very frigid, fertile, vigil of it.
Charged and cataclysmic, a bit promissory note.

How can it be?

Question, you being worded, are a glad ghost.

Do you claim a cottage industry of naught?
Do you recognize the importance of our ailment, and how lately
it’s as popular as a poppy in a picture of an empty lot?

How can you say you mean it?

Get thee to a tributary, skiff. Get you to a river
mouth and get you making. What?

Obey (flatten angry stomach), and pray (sooth the bruised knee)…
as the object of affection (we’ll tell you so), and we love how you object.

Oh wet angry bird, flagrating on your slippery shore,
you have got to be kidding us with this. Don’t you realize

everyone can see you? How quickly you make your get away.

The heart is a spoon in need of fork. The heart is a soaked paper towel.
The heart is a story that is much too long to keep our attention. The heart
is an electric blanket (dangerous to gift).

A rug. A chair. A shoe.

Does one really love walls all that much?

I would like to trade this licking memory with a lock.
It’s stinking up the place. It’s eating us out of house.
It’s unruly. Untidy. Unfriendly.

Please, take it from me.
I have not even named it yet.