Matt Hart

Cantaloupe, the Hydrants Are Hydrant Again,

and I feel like a great compass has wilted,
like a gone balloon over the sea,
and you think
only grief
connects us to one another now,
and maybe you’re right.
Or maybe it’s
or body parts, or jokes
in our coats…so what?
I’m still talking. You’re still
a canary, still wired,
still laughing…
so you can’t
just go
again so abruptly off the rail.
I’m hanged
to the floor like a spider descended
to glue and telling you
you sound like a splitted star,
an oily rag, a fake
woman full of visions
you’ll never finish.
And it’s true you’ve come full
circle (and beyond) more than once.
It’s only right, I suppose,
that a human being expands
from sink to sink to disappear
in the drown. But it’s always
your other thoughts,
childish and abstract
that make it
apparent we aren’t right
and all the same hooked Siamese
at the forehead.
We can’t even carry
what we’ve cut.
Snag your shirt sleeve
if you must,
a yellow taxi.
The position as cuckoo bell ringer,
is yours for all time,
and you’re right about another thing.
It is time you be you
again, but not near the same.
I’ll be the cork in the bathtub
drain. Why wait
for anything familiar?