Won Heart

Hard it was calibrated by
hitting by humming the heart
won lately long ago and often
ribbon-throttled in pills full
of an ache you guessed at
and put your palms upon
suggesting ominous healing
pointing like a windvane
a force in the rain
directing the fingertips
I now run over and over
lines printed on the pages
of your evolved confession
saying without saying
that belonging is its own
form of prayer.

In all the seasons suddenly
odds are tossed and thrown
pulled and pummeled
the rising dough quibbling
ferment uttering grammarless
bundled bright mitigations
unfigured emergent once
the ground froze and thawed
a hundred times listening
to ice melting to thunder slacking off
to small acts  pealing like bells
into neighborhoods of ivy under
inches of second guessing
heavy lifting light sifting
required and coming and yes

On the verge of rich weariness
listening to the album by Jim
Hall resurrecting dead Chet
Baker digitally calling
for a response from afar
with his baton his amp
his nod saying you are
coming around again soon
get ready to shine and
I read what you wrote and
don’t forget what you confessed
when all childhood stopped
your wavy chest hesitant
in the crack in its darkness
is the owner and cracker
of the resonating safe.

Your slight hands can’t
cut that gourmet bread
straight and narrow
so you ask me would you
do it justice with your
hands alive like volcanic
islands in the broad and deep
sea and I say yes
taking the knife handed me by
the banshee in the peach tree
and I say the silent words
and I saw back and forth
pressing down like snow
with what little I know
about the straight and narrow
and you like it.

On a plate buttered
straight out of the toaster
offered and accepted
the won heart yeasted
shaped baked crusted
desiring appreciation
like a beautiful island
waves crashing on it
like a song finally done
like white turned black-and-white
like taking turning into present
a place to live digging
fruitfully in shiny dirt
for resurrected promises
on lips summoning
a beating.

Hand eager for an accounting
cannot wait to turn
another page of exchange
morning for a dawn
she hands me my gift
thanks me for nature
takes extension
gives undulation
takes fluctuating faith
gives patriarchy
takes challenge presented
by a pencil-scratched phrase
casts it back around
gives and takes a look
gets out of her chair
like it is finished.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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