This is a poem I wrote for the poet
Roderick Hjalmar who had coronary bypass
surgery last year.
It's called coronary bypass for Rod.
So now they've made a detour to your heart, routed
the blood like traffic through a different place past derelict
scenery some call inner landscape.
Those aging monuments of bone and muscle.
Old friend they've primed your pump to beat its iom's
out for years.
Next week you'll write of tulips on the windowsill, heart
shaped and red and drunk with oxygen.