My heart’s an owl nailed down, then freed,
then nailed again. Too spent to bleed,
it hardly feels a thing these days.
All those who love me win my praise.
If acting like a child could keep me young,
I’d look and feel much better than I do:
a logic I can laugh at now once stung
because I caught the drift of it from you.
We make such us of you and me
as can’t define or trace the tie
between the two we used to be:
that compound subject, you and I.