because it can be strained and torn, trained and strengthened.
But it can also be grown and set. Broken too, so in some ways it is also like a bone.
and the hairline fractures of stillborn desire whose expression never left the throat
and over the span of a lifetime
bend it into an arthritic and gnarled pose.
Some have said that Love is blind, and I think that true. Still,
it has a funny way of getting around,
and since love comes from the heart,
I think the heart must also be a person.
It is like a person to be at the same time
and only people like us could confuse themselves in the same way.
However it is with the heart, may it not be that love,
becomes a trickle out of impenetrable rock, a crawling rivulet coming in the end to drop feebly into a cold pool In some dark cave,
leaving behind the calcified remnant
of all the substrate, that being
that had hung suspended in the flow of voice, things like
earnest, unashamed feeling,
words of truth given freely and without hesitation,
and brief passion, though never too brief to mention. And
may all of it not come to rest there
in that shadowed lagoon below, the surface of which lies as
still and flat as the membrane between separate worlds, like a pale mirror in a pond of ebony, one
such that for the darkness one might glimpse reflected therein,
magnificent pillars of the would-be, fluted columns,
darkly glittering stalagmites
layered of the small sediment of the soul left in passing moments,
obstacles, a wall around the pool,
stretching toward the unspoken boundary of the infinite black ceiling.
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