The Empty Chest

My heart is the shape
Of the hidden parts
Of Hobart, underground,
Where organs were first
Blueprinted in secret.

In my formative days
Training as a registrar
In unrequited love
I marvelled at Nature,
How it compacts with

Discipline, (Mr.Jobs proved
Something similar when he
Jettisoned a prototype
Into his gourami tank and
Oxygen bubbled, perfidiously),

Meticulous contraptions
Unrelenting, without
Revisions but always
Winning, passing exams,
The questions it set.

If only the Hippocratic
Students had seen
Where Kindness ducts
And Goodness bled,
Glands of Compassion,

Instead of nephritis
Riddled kidneys,
Lung diseases,
Heart bypasses
And an empty chest.

Haiku #390 – #393

390.

Drizzle days, this cage
Is rusty, of aged metal.
Make me next petalled.

391.

Duck dreams in stomachs;
We could have built such systems
For love, and kindness.

392.

But we built instead
Blind slaughterhouses.
I’ll sit beneath blooms

393.

Of cherry blossom;
You are never forgotten,
Merely different.