tiny trembling heart

i can't hear you beating
your hands across the sky
like a whimpering dawn
pink and pale purple, stringing along a chain of
endless Sundays.

we march and martyr
in spite of (or perhaps because) of
an early spring
it is warm too suddenly
and my jackets are too heavy to carry

i can't give much thought to action
an arsonist with water for fire.
escape these petty instruments and protocols
enveloped in my sweet sadness
moist to the touch, damp with expectations and
dew. something new.

save my hopes in the cuff of your pants
underneath the hat i got you
in Jamaica.
if you put the horseshoe upside down,
all the luck spills out
saturates the centuries
the mystified hoards of inaction and good intent

spread across the span of the couch
with thick extremities of muscle and plaid
like honey on toast
you shan't be drenched in it
should you venture closer?