Unmarried, the heart ejaculates
what it must, scarlet-purled, arterial,
away, away. Or conversely, married,
it requires all—venous, freighted with waste.
Fuck the heart. On the radio,
driving home, I learn the Brits
are into all things Scandinavian.
Sunlit schools, bare breasts, the Aurora Borealis.
A “scandi trance.” Maybe. Ice is a mystery
of whatever blue enchantment swiped
my view this morning. This is no allegory.
I’m north of myself these days
with a fist full of silver keys
I lose every night in my dreams.
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