Because the mind wants to be not on time
for once, off the books, unaccounted for, yearns
for a soft landing from a precarious interior cliff. The mind
wants to infringe on unchartered turf, when the microchips
fall where they mast. Upend these sails to loom large over the moon
and ride roughshod over an intuition of landscapes. The heart
wants to tie its shoes with a shorter lace, sit at the kitchen
table, curate on the grid of love and longing. The mind lives
on a hunch, wants to kick the earth to subconscious. Needs to
rearrange the furniture, scream bloody murder in a library
of hushes. The heart keeps mothballs in closets
of clothes that hold our souls. Fact-checked,
the inchoate mind turns off the news, unrhymes
the inexhaustible origin stories of life. Of course, the heart
is its own harshest critic, wears chocolate armor on its sleeves.
The mind knows there are no prayers for bad generals & bounty hunters.
The heart renders a loss so deep, that grief builds a house
of tears. After closing down the requisite bars, the mind
always stumbles home to make angels
in the snow, and let the heart melt them.