she keeps them, potential:
on a library shelf of what
the inside of a heart
should look like.
(on a good day, when emotions
can be ordered into genre next
to ven-tric-les, and action is action
trapped and boxed in the indigo-violet part of
the rainbow until someone presses
play and they become, undeniably
eyes like dead light, those old stars in slow-mo
or fast-forward, still assuredly sameor, say, nine to five slog or tick-tock-tick-tock.
and safe, routine like sky-blue,
skip the chapter,
(if the camera, like they say
all voodoo-logic like pins in your eyes,
does steal, what they call, your soul,
won’t they be glad.