living sidelives
in light rain-

between a cigarette and a dog too old
to know what it’s barking at...

a man silvershorn about the hair
and the soul; begetting half of a life and a life’s half-ending.

a question placed between the asphalt cracks, beside the flecks of ash...
what does his heart entreat?

(such foul anatomical inaccuracies abound
in this metaphor for the seat of all feeling.
it can be an axis you know. emerging from somewhere within the hippocampus, then the pituitary gland, down to the kidneys, ******, or thyroid just to circle all around again. it recruits and unfolds- projecting outwards to come back unto circuits for grounding)

I cannot know.