Some of the deadpan comes from the flatness,
the feigned all-rightness, the sickening thrum of Kansas,
taking all day to drive through that treelessness.
Inside the hardness of the heart, the numbness
of the heart, there lay a smaller heart,
a splinter in your finger, throbbing and pulsing
so you can see how alive you are. God
what a fenestration the heart is.
What strangers see is frontismatter.
An intro to the highlights as we see them.
All our old loves are still there,
impervious and glass-enclosed. You can tap
on the glass and get a rise out of them
because into each life there must be
a ruler and a grid, a little schadenfreude
so it won't be our hearts breaking.
American Poetry Review