I have a timid heart.
Its wallflower movement
ceded only by its
viscous veracity.
Really, the problem is
I know how not to love (

broken plates are needed;
gypsum, joint knife, and hope
for a past patched over
suggested. You must hide
you must hide you must hide).
I’d love to not know how.

Moving with a kind of
insidious intent,
these long-legged feelings
beg to be seen and shown
and owed and owned. Really,
I know not how to love (

I have given all and still
I’m not yet willing. Or
does it sink like heavy
cream— dark until you stir
the memory of her)?
I’d love to know not how.