“The heart is what I imagine I give.” ~ Roland Barthes

There was a time I couldn’t imagine
knowing what time feels like, reduced

to a void by an absence. I learned
how the grass and flowers opened,

how two dragonflies transfixed in air
become a crucible for what could

go on. Dogs in the street sniff
then lean upon one another,

their flanks trembling. How long
can the heart abide in another’s

suffering? I become exhausted
by the identification with what I

can barely alter or contain. The moon
knows better, detaching from its screen

of branches. Fronds of curling fern
undo me— proof I have so much to learn.

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