The future is a projected cone of light

We hurtle toward but never overtake,

Demarcated by rhythmic slashes

Thin and white, evenly spaced

Like so many routinary, endless days.

I focus on light and night, known and unknown,

On trajectory and stopping distance,

Until the startling flash of your green eyes

Grabs my attention for a treacherous instant

And registers on the insidious device

That tracks the pulse of my heart’s desire.




Shape of a Heart

We play the game called Exquisite Corpse —
you with the curlicued lust lines
of your tragic fine-point pens,
I with charcoal-smudged
weather reports and raucous blackbirds —
two sides unseen of the same
folded paper’s fearful symmetry.

I hand you the scalpel, Dottoressa,
and turn away at the first red spots
beading along the curve you cut,
a rotated cardioid, the rolling circle
that traces a two-lobed valentine.