CHRIS SMITH

HEART

There’s something going on inside
my heart, something like an attack
or the snowfall vanishing

on this heat-blown windshield,
that smudges, not sharpens, this view
of the hypothesis sky—

gray as gray as the doorless walls
that locked me for so long inside
non-existence. I am just a rolled-away man

with an animal thing firing inside
my chest, hard as a hammer
that has dulled its tired metal

into the wooden handle; just
another atom like this headlight-
bruised highway, the flickered-yellow grass,

the un-haloed sun that even I know
rusts on its swing beyond the padlocked
clouds of this afternoon’s subconscious.
 
 
 
 
BIOPSY

One day I will become an elemental property,
will, like gas, assume the shape of my container.
Excuse this sadness, it will soon enough vanish
like an airplane into the unstable sky.
Excuse this intelligence, it will always be ahead of itself,
will always have a skull. At night in the asylum
the sound of my solid heart restrains me
from sleeping, yet behind this white curtain doctors
are removing biopsies from my legs.
One of them shows me a piece of myself inside a test tube—
it’s no longer a secret that we’re comprised of highly-condensed
unmovable burdens. I can’t feel anything anymore
for imagination. My legs are sore as I walk
lamely out of the parking lot toward the future,
where in bright mornings, the fog burns off
and my death is there treading like a voiceless song.
 
 
 
 



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