← v17n2, Fall 2018
Poetry · Volume 17, Number 2

O Felon Heart

What’s that musiche said,

alert always to the undertow,

to the tide interrupted.Who’s sick at heart

he said, wanting me to say no one,

wanting one bodysubject to another

into infinity. What’s that wine

you’re drinkinghe said,

adept at all my mouth wanted to gather.

Why not just saywhat happened

I said, aware my words

were retrograde,and liking

that debased formula, all the power

the tired script of lovestill had to offer.

You know that song, its name,

its testament.You know what rooms

we steal through to hear it now.