Scientific Method

I have the fat heart,
suckled on love juices,
swollen in my chest.

Doctors measure with their machines,
size, rhythm, flow, staying power,
and shake their heads, tut tut.

Shut out the wild world
with its infinite breezes
pulling this way and that.

Broken topography of cities,
people in pieces, birthed in ruins.
Angels indeterminate
beneath slick facades.

Doctors with long probes
and ticker tapes of doom converge,
but I am listenenig to the universe within.
The succulent honey of love sustains.