a dark heart escapes
a pairing: L'anneau by Joan Miró, 1961

A visitation You visit with a friend and the sweet aromas and Kenny G in a downtown café, your battery-run prison secure in your pocket, its cesspool of dark hearts sealed and locked behind a pane of glass. And mindful of the blinking, breathing, bodies taking up scarce café room, fogging up the windows, you attempt with your voice to dilute the bile bubbling in your pocket, while you and your friend discuss the grim soul of the world over a cup of espresso. And as you tell of those who simmer in stews of mayhem and murder, the gentleman at the next table, eating a cinnamon bun, licking his fingers, blinks, and it doesn’t occur to you to think he's about to approach, stand over you and say: I’m one, and I hope somebody stabs him in the face. I’m one, and I’m glad he was gunned down. I’m one, and they brought it on themselves. I’m one, and what did you think decolonization meant? I’m one, and yes, by any means necessary. Then turn to walk through the door, into the slow flow of the street outside.



I am one. Make it two. Rings a sound spread out in air. Sleepless night. More in morning light.
Wow