The Little Heart

We solely speak in wasted utterances, flaring

in the wet, in the shade

sputtering in the sun:

thickly red smoke clung along

edges of the Terms & Agreement.

 

I believe in something, she says.

My heart, my heart.

She says: larger--greater than ourselves.

My heart isn’t big enough for her.

My heart isn’t big enough for days

that pass like ignored pets,

 

For books I am too stupid to read,

for the way I am around women and her.

 

My heart isn’t big enough,

no room.

New rooms

in new towns

playing the same old games.

My heart isn’t big enough

to be hurt by

women and her.

My heart isn’t big enough

for hallways at night

and being told to shut up.

 

And blown wind

coming back

at least enough

like smokestacks in the bay

and confusing a horn

for a fart.

 

The way she doesn’t look at me

as I get back into bed.

My heart must not be big enough.