Many Hearts

​friend, they say
we are born with
one heart, but I tell
you I've gone through
dozens, each redder
than the last & the
last bigger than
a piano.
I don't know where
they come from
find them under
the couch, stuffed
into mail slots
served on my bagels.
throw a bushel
out the window
next morning
they dangle from
the utility lines
like electric apples.
it's as if life won't
tire of killing me.
there are days I
envy Jesus with
the shroud burned
onto his face,
the tomb silent
as old mice. he waits
for the sun that
revolves once in
a million years.
but the angels come
for me yearly with
sharpened spoons
bloody buckets.
the sun goes away.
I write one of these
poems, and the sun
comes back. across
outer space rolls it's
red carpet tongue.
presto. this great
magic, friend, isn't
derived from protecting
the heart I now
have.