Patsy Cline

Much of what moves us is wrong, our hearts

the fools of ancient orders, dressed hilariously

in case nothing else is funny. Otherwise we're Lear

but with less impressive credentials,

and of the madness our choices offer–it seems

petty, deserving less nature's full-throated storm

that says of Lear's woes, God damn right,

deserving more the weather at the mall, a drone

and a light​​​​​​ that takes Valium religiously.

What we have left in us, of nature and a discord

that is the storm's right mingling summation in a

clipped flash of light...it's a woman, a man.

And if the heart too thoroughly adores its own

kitsch grandeur, like an overdone theater, gaudy

and gimmicky in its yearnings for an audience,

still, its dramas are elegant: from the chair onstage

a man simply rises as it dawns on him, as they say,

a phrase that suggests we are planets rolling

in and out of light, not our own small selves when

we suddenly see it, what was right there all along,

like a force we would ignore. She doesn't love him

that's all, and planets fall into the sun...

Much as we move through air, we look past the tinsel's

rapture for a post, the clumsy hope that velvet

will make a bench seem posh, our rabble,

even our minds all hushed. We watch people

we could be, will be, were, and we are moved.