I will need a different shirt.
It was tactless
to have given you mine—sure, grief,
but worn and warm of myself.
To have kept
the cloth I’d cut
from it.
It is hot in this cabin of
mystics.
Few of the days I’ve had to live,
the heart—it had
felt more like a fan
on the ceiling,
than a propeller on the plane.
And what’s there?
What’s ever there to surrender?