My heart, so contained
by bones and vessels,
nodes, bronchi, the coming and going
of plasma and platelets
finds love ebbing
with the body’s retreat,
the baking fires
of lively bread now sizzling
into charcoal and smoke
beneath allergy tears
and the dirty water rung
from wash rags,
tasks done and slated
for the washer.

Vim twitches restively
in a bed of its own making
while vigor, gone hunting,
stays out for days.
The air is tinder,
fog-free and dusted
with the leftover heat
of summer, still lingering
in January.

Nobody is playing music
but I imagine that I can dance,
limbs lifting in time
to the melody, muscles
sprung with joy.