Every story turns its face, in cornhusk paleness, I swim across the lake in your eye. Then, a lot of people forget to listen when the boats all start to whisper secrets. The heart is the center of something lopsided. Like monuments that receive their compliments when nothing changes. When the helicopter lands, someone looks up and sees a nest. Endless eyelids grid unsteady corkscrews for seeing thirst. Deliver morning, the coral of the sea, and the rising understanding of how a voice is buried blind. A fountain pen plays the fool for some comments because starting over would embroider ovals into eggs into eyes. In the opinion boxes of everyone else, sententious fortune, wilted finches wait for wind. Content is not content. Happiness, like soap bubbles, empty of iridescence. The heart is the center of something lopsided.