The Heart

The heart has certain secrets
and won't tell; but it must
that it must not, and so wear in till all worn out,
it must be, that it must be
its own death knell;

the heart, it has its longings too,
and will not mind,
the mind, deep blind, wading dark summer cruise
so long, so long, that in its wade
it is the river that falls,
and breaks to pumice after long
shattering , that turns nothing
but was the shine
dazzing upon a bubble tip of laughingly poured wine
breaking as it was born
crying, and must leave, all torn,

the heart knows stillness, it knows profound shadow,
it knows quiet, drift of the pieta,
too much it knows,
not to be close,
it knows the blood,
the espionage of wars,
the sinking tunnels of darkness in closing envelopes
pregnant with love letters, that are not delivered, and die
in red post boxes of night long memories,

the heart, it will look everywhere, will come there
from so far away just to see the slow mirage
of the painting on the walls of thorns
laid out in slowly dying myrtle,
upon a mystic smile

the heart, it is the emperor,
and the empress that commands stone
to turn to soft mist
and be in moist flowering,

all around you.