I refuse to think about waking
about waking to something changed overnight
The fact is
I can’t write anything into difference
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