However timid my heart, I will wear
it where I please, on my sleeve or my hat
or under linen skin, layer upon layer;
hide it within the staunchest rib, a nightmare
maze of bone and secrets, crosshatched slats,
but they’ll still find it and pick it quite bare.
The hats too shorn of every rosette, the caps,
of feathers, badges; would you know me then
for your own among this mass of passive men?
They’ll pluck it clean from the cloth, a pulse, a sob
of breath, a scrap of flesh, hardly a throb,a drop of blood on the wires of timetraps.