This oddly wrought thing
Considered “heart”:
i.e., the human
heart.
Obtuse in love,
Its true angles
Juxtaposed towards
Four warmly-lit chambers.
Placid leaflets
Beat with velvet cadence,
Pouring forth particles
Burned of former days.
Yet, it takes up so little
Room, perched within
This chitinous cage,
The prongs of which
Knowingly exhale, now and then.
And there are no flawlessly
Drawn curves, nor perfectly
Poised cut-outs, a propos
(and that is
why I’ve saved the key)...
Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point...
Copyright 2-14-2013 Lisa Porter-Grenn