Runcible Spoon

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That Red Thing

 

 

I think of your heart

as a roomful of dolls’ shoes

and broken typewriters.

 

I think your heart is a suitcase

being thrown out a high window

or box of old love letters

you can’t bear to part with.

 

Your heart is the tomb of a French poet

who once courted fame and is now forgotten.

Inside your heart is a forest at night,

the sounds we hear unearthly

and yet reassuringly familiar.

 

Your heart is another language being spoken,

one without grammar, adjectives, plurals, words.

Your heart is a train wreck

and many of its passengers can’t be reached in time.

 

I’ve been walking with my eyes closed,

and still I can see the house of your heart.

All the lights are out, but its windows are opened.

There’s a stranger knocking at your door.

It could be anyone.