My heart is the color of brown paper bags,
the cherry blossoms on my arm and the bird made of many small lines.
My heart is well-worn cowboy boots,
non-electric typewriters
(their wholly imperfect letters).
My heart is the first dogwoods and the last magnolias,
clean soft hair and orchards out of season.
My heart is trains and their tracks and his hardwork smell.

My heart tastes like Negra Modelo
and cheap Mexican food on a Thursday night.
Schlitz Malt Liquor
and Camel Lights.
My heart likes Polaroid’s and taking them.
My heart is in the ground glass of my grandfathers WW2 Rollieflex.

Drawn, my heart looks like Schiele.

My heart is pared down to the bare essentials.
My heart is latkes and This American Life on Sundays.
My heart takes pictures when you’re not looking.
My heart is leaf piles and cardboard box forts and autumn.
Fresh cut grass smell.
My heart loves mail.

It sees the world through squares and rectangles.
It loves scarf and sweater weather
and Caitlin King and her love of bears.

It sounds like the banjo
dobro
fiddle
and saw.

My heart is sterling silver and stainless steel.
My heart is the weight of your arms when we sleep.
Silver gelatin prints and color chrome negatives.
The sea and ships (it wants to be kidnapped and taken to Mexico).

My heart sounds like Neil Young on vinyl.
It’s soft like the yellow light of incandescent bulbs.
My heart is driving forgotten highways with no destination.
Vintage road bikes and their flaking paint.
The words languid and chaos.
Owls and their strong stocky bodies.
The boxes that Clementine’s came in.
Cyanotypes and salted paper prints.

My heart is ribcage-rattling amplifiers.
A stolen daffodil in a can.

My heart is bones behind bones
and his saltwater voice.