sharing different heartbeats

much ado about the heartbeat.
epicenter that it is,
carrying Me to myself through
roads beaten down often but still
illuminated some nights

with wine. and friends
so close that, on nights spent together,
we end up crawling upon
each other and collapsing. emotionally,
then physically, like a
pile of cats.

and other nights, by myself
on a bus with noise all around but i
see myself outside walking, free from
the stains of my circumstance, and
i see another figure
taller, close behind
and that's Me too.

the light extends to mornings
walking on the midway, lilacs and
fertilizer making the atmosphere
smell like air. real air. blue air.
those mornings my legs are
different; they are curious.

the middle of me, at times
clogged with the art around me
and the art elsewhere, seeks
dormancy rather than an honest
exploration of what's true:
the road is dirt, and unused.
my potential is potentially slight.

i make it to my fingertips and not
beyond. i can touch only what
touches me back, but i buy a
plane ticket and

hope that with the
power of hours spent sorting books and
shelving them, i will be able to
stand on the edge of an ocean and
have another figure,
taller, close behind,
and that will be Me too.

i am not sure of all things, or
even many, except that i'm an animal
of considerable caution in love with
complications that reflect me as
simple.

and that i hate to be painted by
another who assigns me two dimensions
and traps me in an image. i may be
closer to a void.

and that it's 2:50 and i
will now end, not a poem,
clearly.
just a
thing.