It's like what the kids say: the heart is tangled
syrup wood. Love is a mangled metaphor,
an electric tiger stalking the avenues
searching for someone to play Scrabble with.
You hope it whispers a word or two to fill
in your rhyme scheme, but instead it opens wide,
grabs you around the waist, and wanders off
with your head and limbs dangling from its mouth.
You don't play Scrabble that way do you? With
a twenty-point bonus for making a word
that rhymes? Love does. It's wrenching. It takes the nuts
and bolts of the tangled tiger heart and twists—
lefty loosey, righty tigthy—until
its teeth dig through the engine of your mind.
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