the heart,
and how it loves,
i cannot say.
but you forgive
me.
i cannot know the untamed thing
as much as feel
it's sting-
and I have no god to approach...
to reconcile the
irony.
only the pit
in me.
only the furnace of lost moons.
the ****
jewels
of nightfall,
and nothing
else.
i keep the squalor of our opulent hearts
in heavenly hovels !
i denote the flat note
in a fife's
throat -
and blow the trumpet
of silent
things.

so...

how
it loves,
is lost to
me.
but i burn more
constantly
than I forgive
it

empty.

full of
you.