I lost my heart somewhere between my shoulder
and my watch, in the stitching of my sweater’s wool,
I only feel it when I raise my hand to speak or grab.
Like a splinter, it only speaks to warn me of its presence—
so much of being alive is understanding the language of inanimate
objects: clocks tick in Morse Code, rain falls in Braille when
collecting on my windshield, and the dryer uses the pennies left over
in my pants pockets to typewrite my inattention to detail. If God be anything,
for heaven’s sake, be a porch light— be a train track, be my parent’s mailbox—
be visible from my bedroom window. I hope to one day, when the weather
is much less gray, open up the window, and breathe in the same air
as God and mail and tracks that guide trains through the fog.