Twenty-four hours dedicated to the heart
and the heart in question a caricature
of something that never existed: half a butterfly
squeezing out of a lace-trimmed corset,
a fantasy floozy, dipped in red,
favorite color of the criminally insane.
Equally ferocious, this insistence
that love resides in the chest,
when everyone knows it pitches itself
into ether. That’s why they speak of falling:
you step out without looking, and even
the best parts of you won’t hold you up.
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