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I refuse to think about waking

about waking to something changed overnight

The fact is


I can’t write anything into difference

I can’t

I won’t

I refuse to pen myself to

an even-ness of spirit;

to write, to 

rein in my troublesome heart

my heart, always running where it should not

my heart thundering down the street,


biting on the bit.

My heart never learned to hide itself

my heart, always a spectacle, running down the street,




making heads turn, shake, look away.


What would I change, overnight?

My heart, that I love as I have to? As I must?

My heart that torments me, I shake my own head

my heart, which I lead with, always

trying and trying and trying again

to go slow -

is it a canter?

My heart - is it trotting? A walk? A saunter?


My heart is my heart

I am too old to change it

too old to hide it, to obfuscate, conceal

biting on that bit

I am always sweating

clattering, shod with iron,

writing and writing and refusing to learn

to hold the bit easy

to trot

to walk.

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