"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Daniel Morgan

What does it mean to speak of love's
Eventuality, like some do
Of a foregone conclusion?

Yet I don't have to wonder who
Strikes my heart like Stravinsky
On his out-of-synch violins
— all forty of them.

(All the while, patience falls off
You in iceberg chunks,
Shattering, giving me
Cold feet).

Do I answer the mitred song?
That depends.

I'd like to accompany you to the footbridge
As with the habit of others.
But I've cast off pituitary desires.
For a time.

For I shouldn't think the way
To a woman's heart is through
Her inferior vena cava;
Likewise eldritch fires may burn too hot
To a dervish out of whirl
Or even a dead German's waltz.
Though I digress.

But not for toe-headed girls
Or their vena cavas! mind you.

You watch my face,
And I'll observe the awkward grace
Of synchronizing pistons,
And making sure things don't go south
Like last time when my foot
Flew into my mouth.