my heart hangs on display in the window between
a magnifying glass where one might see the soul
of man and a telescope where one might see his
lust, in this relic shop where he lies asleep in his
chair, pale and perfect, tattoo-whorled like a
murano vase, sharp-tongued like broken china.
my hands, grasping permanently at nothing, hang
beside the browning muscle. next to them, a sign:
these have touched gods.
his heart is like a conch shell. blow in it
and the whole ocean reverberates. i find
his current and immerse in tidal flow that
spills from his mouth. the sea is frozen in
rapture. he blows a tradewind over my
skin, leaving salt-smell and sand in my bed,
a fan-shell beneath my tongue.
we don’t play Legos
instead we play with people
hearts come crashing down