Like a used ribbon,
            the heart’s misty mystique            

soon dries out -- after a while
            old scars turn red again,            

little carbon harbingers
            indelible and hot,            

same key spots struck
            vulnerable, tender.           

I like the comfort of erasure
            and half-forgotten clichès

such as the course of true love
            always circles back --

too bad the wooly lamb-spun
            heels of moodswing love

 never kick up those
            clackety toes for nothing.