A suggestion of a statue, timeless 
on a pedestal, has released your heart 
-like a leaf from a tree- to voodoo dolls 
dancing in the foreground. Released your heart  
-but your dream is a nightmare-
to pieces of silver you have to eat,
and the lonely wayward miles, combusting.

How the eons feign to move!
It is that your heart may return.
All times are grievous says the poet
for the old waltz slows to one note, far too loud.
She is of another world who waits still
for the heart that returns.