Where, oh Heart, is the answer? In man’s olive iris that pines capsule of soulish vines stretching
by the water in that memory… First pink touch: the long name, Which you say is so easy on the eye
In catching dim fair soft lights blown in gloom’s silver odds
between two old pages or News soaked in a gray ink drop bath: The blending of war broken out on earth’s cheek With the gossiping red margins and Something eerie on the last page…
I step on it, walking straight.
In still mindfully begging Oval windows on the church ramparts: Is it in the epoch Womanhood? In the sore ******, in the sore slits Dribbling pollen of wounds of Nickings, gyps, slights, losses
Is it in a stasis Forested with chocolate and sisters Purpled bedtime music boxes Dreaming or in the moment I Stir my bland corners with song Not in victories banners cheering Hunched labor in running Something we get when winning
Is it in a process That wrinkles like skin, then spots Or hangs over the path A great moss and changing the wintery company of foliage and twig to fire and blossom, in the birth of death and growing?
is it in kissing or eating before praying like guilt yellow as bruised pear hips that melt to brown in your fingers
Should I see or hear or feel it in the man himself, meat of his fine muscles, his heart's voice, the buried hunger pang, it speaks or in his prayer's slow sadness, black as the tomb's passage and can you answer?