El Corazon

Muffled, canned-music sound
of some rhythmic not beating
around a junkie’s dream,

everyone draws a different card,

He dresses in black, my veins
pulling white, tighter under
the same thing, winding…

Plumes of perfume in her
quick wake,

fast way to change time
without deceptions help,
but why would anyone bother?

His arrow runs southwest,

with a bouquet of yellow
feathers–what finch?–
through a canyon thicker

than arteries. Damming

he only allows a slow drop
like a Kyoto one meter high,
mouth-blown glass

creating an ornate sense
of purpose,

spiraling down so achingly
still unable to extract
the source keeping me with you…


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