With This Heart

— Jerry Dyer

I’ve reached the age where I have
but one sharp ear,
and one good side to talk to.
Still, birds’ songs, angels’ sighs,
the mumbling on the street
of bums as I pass by,
all fill my head as sweetly
as when I was young.
At my age, there is never
a second dawn
buffing morning’s plate-glass
platinum or pink,
until a dream falls
in between. Around midnight,
my carriage turns into a pumpkin,
and the fiddle comes unstrung.

Ah, but my heart!
Its ventricles are just as brazen
as when the world began.
With this heart, I can live
on the eighth floor
of friendship. With this heart,
love lets a room just below
the steeple, where breezes start,
where church bells find their tongue.

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