a heart with no initials


I watched my mouth airmail
my breath
to its transparent destination. It attached
to window glass
like a liquefied tattoo. Though
far more fleeting,
still
impenetrable.

As my eyes vacuumed the
light specks
skimming ‘cross dawn’s
sluggish birth,
bursting forth from
pregnant earth, the
sun emerged. Backdrop to shield
so stained with
misty clinging patch of breath. Such
faithful slab
which shelters me
from sun-scorched fingertip. Touch

the glass,
my ease commanded.
Streak your finger through
the cloud. Interrupt the
dotty throng.
Depict
the bleakness loitering inside you.

Once my finger,
masked as art tool,
traced the shape of
haunting truth,
I was startled by the image’s
deep talent
for reflection.

a heart with no initials.

A fifth grade magnum opus so
incomplete and
transient
knows my emptiness, shows
my hollow nest
more true than
the dementia of
Picasso.



© 2001, Arden Davidson