2.

I have cut out your heart
and stacked it to one side
in neat little criss-cross piles.

The dust from the incision
got in my hair and clothes
and made my eyes rusty.

The bricks had been used
to fill cavity walls another left
between the two houses.

There are lead pipes where
veins should be, aortic chimneys
and blown plaster platelets.

Your heart hits the floor
as an iambic mess of red clay,
each piece walking a plank.

Crumbs of it bounce and roll
until they’re lost between joists
shielding us from the void.