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.