My turnstile heart
that's what I was thinking about when I hopped the entry, on 86th, waiting for the downtown local to 14th.
My turnstile heart, and what can I do for mercy?
That clicking sound that can never go back, only count forwards.
What I've done I can not go back So I promise the day before that the next will be right.
No.
no promises, no future plans, why cant right now be my truth?
I am so sorry my words lit like matches. before.
I blew them out, I blew them out.
So I reverse, pushing turnstile backwards, changing destination, my own $1.50 contradiction, and five fingers to a cab, past a party I'd left.
"take me home driver, my words are like matches and I have a turnstile heart, which will never goes back, take me home so I can write this down."
My heart has clicked forward, with a pressure of five teenage boys pressing through the underground on a Friday night, hoping to find fun on the upper west side.
I don't want to be that fast.
I don't know were I am going, and I will regret never telling you where I was when I was here.
I have miles of tears to go, yet some how I've begun somewhere in the middle of all this.

That was really pretty.
and stupid,
now tell me really what my turnstile heart is.
My turnstile heart is the thought that, since I have gone through something as big as this pain (WTC, or something far older). That I can forget about it. Let the number count, and go on without my tears.
What have I done, to convince my own mind that memory is irrelevant?
That memory mutates.
I am so tired of the master of this mind.