Some wonder about Whitman’s heart.
If I had eyes like Simic’s,
the shadow this pen casts
on a wooden table
in the late afternoon sun
would simply erase itself.

Come back in another life,
or at least another day,
as a reanimated limb.
Or a severed pipe
that releases a few
final sputterings of steam.

It’s always a good idea to keep the stray
pieces in a shoebox.
Always worth noting
how the sweat that forms
on my upper lip
might bring me joy.