Your grass is brown and wet and dead.
I think of the word “moor” –
Othello, Heathcliff,
loose ships make fast to the shore.

My heart drops
in the muck
with a hiss.

I text you
“my reason for reason is gone and i am lost”.

A different girl texts me,
“Spending the evening with my friend who just got out of jail. Be home late.”

My heart is
an antelope.

My heart is
a verb.

My heart is a pocket hole in an infertile boggy area.

I like the second girl.