My Heart is a Cinnamon Bun
I hear myself think. I snatch the morsel from the voices and noise that pour over and through me. Have I not been blessed? Poetry has come, unbidden. But only a line. I must find the rest. I reach into the sticky depths of my mind. Find a hole filled with shovels, and a blanket of stars. Neither fits around my cinnamon heart. Then, one winter afternoon, I see the sign. It is not the heart of St. Valentine but a doughy model of anatomy outside the bakery at the university. At least the coffee’s strong. I push through the door.
Flight of the dragonfly 