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To My Heart, on Sunday Thank you, my heart: you don’t dawdle, you keep going with no flattery or reward, just from inborn diligence. You get seventy credits a minute. Each of your systoles shoves a little boat to open sea to sail around the world. Thank you, my heart: time after time you pluck me, separate even in sleep, out of the whole. You make sure I don’t dream my dreams up to that final flight, no wings required. Thank you, my heart: I woke up again and even though it’s Sunday, the day of rest, the usual preholiday rush continues underneath my ribs.
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