I fixate on the heartbeats;
breaths swell like waves in caves.
I time the rise and shy retreat
to assure myself the ends will meet,
cos sometimes it seems to take them too long;
a moment stranded like forgotten songs
left to wonder if one day they’ll ever complete,
should the artist compose for my heart
one more beat.
I stand devoted to the sea,
though she may never know the love,
there’s beauty in her fervency
that draws from deep to rise above.
I do what little a poet can
to cast a line into the swell;
with hopes for hooks, I haul with hands
to snag a lip or claw or shell.
I edge the tide in silent awe,
brace cold beside unwavering form,
bleed out and wash into the shore,
evaporate to join the storm.
Throughout the broken night
their tears fall fast like Texas hail,
and crush the camps at city hall,
and rip the air with wails.
Four streets away from disarray,
we tightly lie awake,
and grip our bulletproof sheets, and peek
at tweets that make us shake.
I have a cupboard full of corks,
each one scarred red, with cored-out hearts,
each drilled by hand, then laid to rest –
or rather ‘tossed’,
in some feigned manner of casual
(after all, who cares?)
to the lower shelf, where nobody will find them.
And how I hope someone will.
Wait, they’d say.
What are these?