Poetry is an expression of intensity. Someone said that once. It might have been us. We say smart things sometimes in the beat of the moment. It’s not as easy as you think to connect two lobes of thought, but sometimes we get it right. Listen.
There’s a spider spinning threads of hope through the tunnels of the aorta. We see it whisper in the corners of our eyerooms and so we make traps out of crumbled love notes and bits of sugared tears. No one comes to capture us when we wiggle.
You need two of us to make it work. Everyone knows that. Nothing new. Put two fists together in the right beat and anything hums at seventy two flutters an hour. Even the dogs understand that some things are impossible to hear.
Failure is imminent. No, don’t look now. We’ll be arrested so fast we won’t feel the cuffs. Don’t put us in the back seat. See how our intensity stains the fabric, see how the cop can’t stop looking at us. Shifty eyes make accidents happen.
Look, we don’t know what the hell we’re talking about. Someone’s punch drunk, high on pulses and arrhythmias. The leftovers of the liver are getting to us. We’ve been Langendorffed, perforated. Someone failed us so
if you know how to unzip a chest, now’s the time. We’re not adverse to the kiss of life. Lock down the ventricles, close off the valves. Put your mouth against our openings and blow. Warm the very cockles. What? You expected a love poem?
Today’s mail brought a number of things, including a heart-felt letter that I’ve been thinking about all day. So, I riffed off of yesterday’s bone poem and moved onto a softer (at least in theory) internal organ.