Mechanical Heart

It boils down to the broken trafficked mechanical heart:

sometimes it’s the most familiar place

you’ve been inside.

I turn the salmon pages of the Financial Times.

I’m really in to deep experience at this point in my life,

I can hear the propelling snare rattle the loose past …

not my grand life, but my old girl

in August, below the rising questioning fables

attaching the leads to my caved-in chest.

Where are the kindly old men at the party

for literature at the end of life? Is this Flagstaff?

Where the heavy-handed dissociative wants for his psychiatrist?

Take the hand of the person whose leaky valve approximates

the wound in your side and stand on skull-hill

surveying the human statement.