How do you straighten out the human heart
and tell the head that it is truly mad,
mixed up and made for something closer to art
than mathematics and newspaper ads,
and meaningless motions made fast as ‘bots
working robotic shifts at factories?
How do you tell with mind what ties in knots
that all it needs is love and arteries
beating as pulsars between the silk sheets,
beating as lovers, big spoons, and little spoons?
The Poetry Of J.P. 