The Heart of the Matter

On the sleeve, it snags at every 
opportunity. In the mouth, it garbles 
all its syllables even if it knows the whole 
routine from memory. When it makes 
a promise, it does so with a slash 
from top to bottom, from side to side. Mine
has tried to be tender more than granite, 
gilded more than broken—though lately its various 
weights have made it  almost lose itself.  Rambling 
or listless, it's walked that long road in search 
of its buoyant self.  When it looks up 
from the depths of a well, the smallest word 
gives it courage. It might just tip and pour itself
out, when the needle jumps on the turntable.

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