No other heart can know.
To search each other's heart.
We are but at the surface of a sphere.
more centered, more full, less superficial.
ai lama speaks, it’s from the heart of—you.
And now and then a poet does this, too.
unflummoxed by the stirrings of his wife.
before the hour's too busy, too alive.
plus kitchen kettles, whispering through the wall.
each going his own way.
by some errant foot, some furtive beast.
that came to me, these pieces I could mend.
and feel its colorful texture.
to listen to someone else.
you know? The boring slow ride up the parkway?
acted out with plastique fashioned somewhere.
I believe I forget places, my own face, I’m not sure.
He points to the wind: spitting.
the paper-dry crunch, the tears.
sun still shines, exhaling fire.
in anything, like he might as well give up.
the deer thought, and there’s no one who sees me.
Am I invisible, or what? He didn’t think so.
sees me. Here I am, a hart, and no one cares.
I’m going to do something drastic, I mean it.
Right now it feels like I’m trapped in deerness.
be someone else, something completely different.
into present and that sufficient.
us by the length of their lives.
To choose to be a member of the set.
Remember: these are numbers we forget.
And equally cannot by chance reject.
Of who will grieve and when, and who rejoice.
Perhaps we once knew why—but since forgot.