2060. THE HEART DEVOURS WHAT IT CAN'T UNDERSTAND

THE HEART DEVOURS

WHAT IT CAN'T UNDERSTAND

I am far and away from Brooklyn where the climbing vine

climbs and seduces the sky. Standing next to one or another

glass building, I can only wonder why. Examination of the

particulars would afford me little : you are already far and

away from all that. Just like me. Two taps, and a selfsame

faucet. I really want to talk. I am up all night, from outrageous

dreams, and you are far and away the best thing I've seen.

Window panes reflect the sunlight above, strands of shading,

broken into filigrees of color and light. I shield even these -

my eyes - from some glory, something blistering, blastingly

bright. The father behind me is telling his stories : the usual

wartime hits, days of old glories, the things he never got over.

Wearing it now, like an old, worn coat, it's obvious to anyone

that no one cares, gives a shit, gives a hoot. But, alas, that's

how old men die, telling war stories beneath a wartime sky.

Some things just never change. The heart devours what it

can't arrange. Your fingers, I am seeing, are blessed and

lovely; not with jewels, but with the polish of a skin ivory

white - a porcelain charade of trim, translucent beauty.

How it's done is always beyond reason and I

surrender my arms to your charms.

-

I am duplicated at once by the shadow you cast - in the

background, that bridge, with all its wild graffiti. And that

makes two. Of us. As one. High over the water, where tugs

and fishers swarm. Nothing worthwhile there but water taxis

with all their dead people, skimming back and forth as if

to Hades. Ladies, take it from me. There is no better there.

The heart devours what it can't make disappear; and I

am probably lonely forever. A paltry charm 'neath a

gimmicky, festive sky.