Worn on the sleeve

I used to envy those who carried
their hearts
safe
surrounded by the warm fellowship of other organs.

worn on the sleeve
mine fits no item of clothing,
so rides exposed,
bumping into this sharp-edged
tongue, or that pointed
remark.

but a bleeding heart is never really broken,
and worn there
it escapes its ribbed-cage.

on the lam, its every beat sucks in sorrow, pumps out sweetness, the flow of life and its ebb.

wristworn its hands waving, it warns all and me,
each staccato second,
that the time is always

now.