February 14

comments 6

This morning, walking,
a welder’s sparks falling

inside a building frame,
a cage of flames

and empty space,
of noncommittal sky.

Sactum sanctorum,
with its quietest corners,

a heart, too, is made
from many rooms:

foreparlours, endlessly

recessing, a heart
has no heart to it,

it is a door that opens
and shuts.

Passage defines it,
existence demands it,

a place of access,
and egress, that hue

of regret. Somewhere
along this way, honeysuckle

is blooming early,
with weighty sweetness.

This sadness, why?
Such is love’s transgression.

To think of Romeo on this
of all days. A season

progresses, but a morning,
it gives way.


  1. Beautiful. Nice to see you’re adding visuals now… lovely extended metaphor and surprising speaker. I love the idea that ‘a heart has no heart’ – thanks for dropping by recently! ~ P ~


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