talk about the weather

i have torn my heart out of my own body and
held it beating in my hands
to study it, to understand why
yet it will reveal nothing and just keeps on beating
stubbornly
even after being poked and squeezed rudely
even after i stomp on it.
my body seems to be more cooperative
lending me a sense of rhythm, of everyday life
when my mind acts like a scratched record.
i hide my blood wet hands when you call
and we talk about the weather.