Most
hearts grow by love
or grow by the feel of a loved somebody gone
and the
loss gone have nothing to do
but beat and keep a desolate flow of blood. Strong
false hearts, thudding with a phoney love,
not false to life, fulfil some
body a while
and the body gone have nothing to do but repent.
It is the
weak true hearts that are false to life. This
weak true heart did not satisfy who it loved.
This flesh is blunt. It cannot
feel but by loss
and the loss gone, has nothing to do
but sit in a room
where dusk and the dust thicken. Once
birdlight and wind in a suburban street
made an absence full of a loved somebody
gone
but the loss is gone now. There is nothing to do.
And nothing to do.
And nothing to do. |