“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.