This Is Not a Poem About Love

No, not heartbreak.
This is the winter wind in a watery city,
Soaking through my skull,
Thinly tinting my fingernails blue.
This is the vein-stain, so thick on my pale arm
It might have been tattooed there with bright ink,
Still refusing to bleed.
This is the spider walking like a prophet
Over stagnant water.
This is a camera flash on a lightning-sliced night.
This is the vibration
Felt by a deaf child standing beside a boom-box.
This, this is the rhythm of train wheels over a deftly placed penny--
Regular, steady, staccato crush.
This is Delilah pouring salt in my double-dyed wounds.
This is two-tongued Samson with the
Blade against his own blue-green locks.
This is the irksome red rat-a-tat
Reminding us after all that
Our hearts are still very much intact.