Obsessing over topographical studies on yellowed
pages—antique blueprints of the human condition—
I spot hair-thin arrows, blood-red superscripts, scrawled
annotations, inscribed by some learned profession.
I take in copious marginalia (re: muscles, organs,
and skeletal structure). I notice no notes taken,
no inked-in ovations, no key to the complex—humans’
romantic circulation. I see emotion forgotten.
I crave a new edition that shows more heart; shows
our pulse, breath, blood; shows all the pressures
flowing within us, how our sensibilities can slow
or quicken in relation to the varying measures
of noxious or nutritious words fed through the ears,
morsel by morsel, straight to the maw of the heart.
