The heart has a wholly separate system -
it doesn’t root as quick as the feet transport
the body, its mask and its complex garment
across walls and borders, from port to port.
The body has its cravings and its comforts -
it finds its substrates and grows its meristem
as its bent for melancholy is short.
Not so the heart. Less neat, more insistent
on taking its time for both sad and happy,
on culturing its own substrates for growth,
on waiting by dark walls and strange, perched moths.
It suspects clean ends, prefers old and shabby –
stays with the frayed threads of the well-known cloth.
Turns on its axis to make its own true north.