there are rules for things
even at the level of the heart–
which usually abandons the mind
and sometimes strays off the well-worn path;
goes looking for birds of every color,
searches high for every hue tucked inside a cloud,
longs for the key to the city of the puzzle
and never finds the answers; hangs itself from a poplar.
sleeps outdoors in winter without blankets,
wears a robe and broken slippers while smoking the house,
is a newspaper on a doorstep
with the other newspapers on the doorstep.
the rules to matters concerning the heart
involve no rules at all
except the laundry list of rules once unspoken
that are unrolled for miles when everything breaks
and most certainly will.
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