Have I asked the wrong question?
Rhetoric, its answer feels like a secret
that shouldn’t be kept: broken heart

still beats in spite of its corkscrew defect,
breathes itself into the empty hollow
between inhale and exhale;

Oak-infused whiskey drowns wayward lust,
gathers stutter-coughs from the back
of the throat when its smokey scent stings;

Swing of the pendulum borrows against
an uncertain future when I try to dance solo
beyond the recollection of a carnival fortune teller,

its arm slices and swooshes through nostalgic air,
gathers the electro-static pops from a needle that glides
between tight grooves on a black vinyl disk

while it collects dust with each rotation.
Already it feels like I have circled back
more times than should be allowed.