by Jon Thrower
By the end you’ll find out
for sure, something simple:
It was the heart all along, in the middle of you, keeping you
as if in some lifelong
marching band you do not recall joining. Some stand in for love
or lust but the heart
is not some way of feeling.
The heart just is.
Your heart all along.
Where the all the tortured and touched waters of life empty into eventually, as if an ocean. Your heart all along.
the noise of it there invisibly
and yet loud enough
on numerous occasions
to seriously consider
like today in the chair at the hospital pavilion
rackety-boom, says the heart
over
and over and over.
Pegasus 