Heart Man

Holes in my heart are the size of the gaps
that puncture lobes, leave room for fingers, gourds,
or tongues that slip, like you out of the door
before the sun awakes. The morning raps

at the window, the light pours in the cracks
in the form of screeches, and senseless words
signaling our approach into a world
that tilts- that has no lines or rules or maps.

Heads rest on beds but mostly colored mats
and hands are hugged with gloves, with flashing lights
of love. We live in years not days or hours,

decades have gone by instead of only months past.
In the land of our living even what's wrong is right
and the sun that I see is the kind in the flower.