cœur

 We are thinking “tucked under sheets” the world creeps up to a sudden chin-- 

somber hearts sleep in temples of flesh
                

                         Beating through the telephone wires/    

bleeds in whatever direction

         

                                       the thin, platelet suns of ourselves      

 call the transfusionist for new blood--

call anyone who will gather a listen     

to mystical arrays of whatever love is siphoned

                through the intricate tubes of an arm

 

                                                                          I’m howling--- then I’m over it

I’m colder than a tomb in some Gothic romance novel ------   

                                              my bed is engulfed

 in musky currents of sweat                and she is dying like a poet                  dies

with her head full of minute circuitry    

                                          and words beginning with the letter C