Organ and Orchestra
my heart is not organic.
it does not play the melody, it counts the time:
one two three (step) one two three (step)
like a gramophone weary of
the same tune spinning in sepia
tones and peeling like vintage
wallpaper. it moves, soporifically,
through seasons, sounding off
the days, and winter leaves only
the faintest glimmer of frost along
the protruding arteries and veins. it sings
like a heart monitor, cyanide notes
bursting like blinks: casual and insignificant
and usual, a dial tone disconnect.

my heart is made of glass.
silk ghosts linger on its surface, tinting
it translucent. i finger-paint
love song lyrics on the dewy
inside, watch the words drip down
like melting icicles. shake it like a snow globe,
watch the flurry inside. draw
our initials on my heart chamber
walls and press your palms
to the sides—our hands will
match. it will light up like a kaleidoscope;
we'll see each other through the glass.