“my heart is not here” -Sir Walter Scott
daily, daily. my problem heart
serpentines through doldrums on-
to distant far-flung roads lurking
along a seventeen mile stretch
to dry sculpted cypress–witch’s
hair hanging from smooth barreled
broom. ready to fall now, flake-by
-flake. off to wind; thin skin on
a cliff doesn’t make a sound just
tangle(s) with light. one leap from
the dust renounces blood ties, the
downed moon, and calendar counts.
my heart is not here, et al.