That's the thing about a callused heart. It still beats, bleeds And loves the way any other heart does. Its a matter of feeling those things that becomes difficult.
desperate air & every piece of body, named on countless charts in countless schoolroom closets but only felt to me in shimmers of springs & soft running steps on moss & oak leaves, trembles & thrives in the space between roots. I feel it when there is wind in the valley of the small of the back of the adolescent cedar, & unpolished beetles play me twilight nocturnes in hopes that I will break out of silk fetters into the dense of August to be no one but myself.