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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=563285" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Maps, Travels, Contours</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=563285" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The heart simply does<br>and “does” is the best word <br>for what cannot be explained or plotted<br>in a story or a graph<br>cannot be predicted and is perhaps ill-advised<br>like when a lover walks back<br>into their lovers room<br>after toiling long at sea<br>in a fog <br>in a storm<br>on a highway it had no business walking<br>and flops on the sweaty unwashed sheets <br>of the double bed in the three-room loft<br>while the other heart<br>the heart that has remained<br> to keep the room ready for this return<br>picks up all this new-old laundry <br>and continues sewing and stitching<br>as it has done and always done<br>and when finished<br>without so much as a glance<br>gets up <br>walks out saying <br>“grocery shopping, that’s all. Back in a bit.” <br>before going to walk alone out along the strand<br>and cry out by the docks<br>walking in a fog <br>in a storm<br>on a highway<br>only to return in its own way</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Michael+Pacholski">Michael Pacholski</a></strong></div>