in those lines and
the people must have hearts -
black hearts, red hearts, white hearts -
the blush and tug of tears,
disconnected breath, the special agony,
that's what's missing.
The crows way above traffic stop me.
Or the squirrel on a porch,
nut in its mouth, forepaws up or
the mad mockingbird flying level across a park.
You must have people, squeeze-dried, ripped
from memory and they must have heads,
tilted askew breaking what little current
of air exists between and the heads
will have voices, lies and innuendo,
coming from the mouths, disconnected.