Our hearts were formed before our bones
supported any kind of weight.
I listen to the metronome
of the daily news, on my phone
and get depressed, and can’t create.
Our hearts were formed before our bones
persuaded us that they alone
could measure our artistic fate.
I listen to the metronome
that they pound out as I walk home
to empty canvases I hate.
Our hearts were formed before our bones,
but what else do I really know
about myself? I try to paint.
I listen to the metronome
of dusk against my brush’s groans.
The palette’s dry. It’s getting late.
Our hearts were formed before our bones.
I listen to the metronome.
