The open heart cannot fathom its own

closed off like a dream to the awakened
soul whom pressures of pragmatics have shown
to slide, swift, from the somnolence, weakened:
The open heart, thus, wraps around itself
a bandanna of blue and white paisley,
to rep the colors of the welkin-shelf,
which lines the clouds in silver-starred medley:
They lean leftward when the back is arched, crooked,
and the cat retreats toward the empty crack –
his eyes are ghastly, guilty and rebuked
by the forward incline of the smokestack:
All the while, the winds build a new Babel
from leaves that palaver at cross-fable.
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