The wind thinks up long monologues on madness
as the sun speaks earnestly of pride
and pleasure and the clouds howl far away and blind
and even the sidewalk mumbles a little.
And the sound of my heart—I can’t hear it.
Maybe it has nothing to say.
Maybe it is afraid of what I’ll think of what it says
so whispers. I am considering asking
even forcing it to shout. What if I stood in the rain
at noon on a busy street
and shut my eyes? What if I tied up my hands with twine
and lay upturned at empty ceilings for hours and hours?
My God, it worked. My heart whimpers
pathetic as a child
crouched half a mile from home beside a tree,
believing itself lost. It moans softly
about you. It says