A Cargo of Green Hearts
listen, winter: go home. the crows have long surrendered the dark sled of Autumn
they killed everything with. already they are turning into bluejays.
death has another face, another way of kissing that is beginning to taste
I am thinking of old loves, and how tulips remind me it’s never too early.
I would lie down on this snow and melt it and die doing so if it would help.
for just one blossom could
it’s like in the old fairytales before they were saccharined by cowards:
something must perish willingly so that something
else can live
the ice knows nothing of this until it becomes water. a face is nothing nothing
until softened with grief. see here, there is no expert on the sun wiser than
the heart. everything I am now I give up
rashly as heat
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