Bastard Heart
Weary as the cinema
in your broken coat,
dreary is the pictureshow
with phantoms rattlin’ ‘round your bastard heart.
Photographs of motorcrashes
starring me—I pulled them from
an incision in your throat
while you were fast asleep.
Where were you when evening fell?
All the town grew still and old.
Something set itself on fire,
and flew across the sea.
How I wished that you were there,
watching yourself go away.
There was always two of you
in my peculiar dream and bastard heart.