Take your picture? Here’s your little injury
bread box, decorative
prison of appropriated lowerings
where heart swallows acorn
after acorn, each one going down
like an open vowel.
What’s kept’s ycleped cuttage:
panem et circenses
for us the held-to helps yell out.
Laid by, it points the ways.
Compass needle, sharp and
contraplex, what of heart’s own
coruscation? All inflate. Pleasure:
to echo ourselves in the antechamber,
never too busy to be impressed
by our own function—
Wow, wow, wow, oh wow, aha—
doppler bubbles or rustling fabric—
this one looks cobalt, but when
light strikes, shines ruby!
Yes, heart, dressed so you might
step out, if you’re blue and you
don’t know where to go to acorn’s
brazen buckle works. A slash
or a gasp in the backflap’s
grip: feeling’s supple
tackle, by which we are seemingly
caught and, later, released.
The hearts have it. Nothing lost
but trim and admonitions:
Catch up. Catch up. Catch up.