Is it still permitted to talk about the heart?

To say, at least, how some days
it feels covered with moss;
at other times, with a thin husk
like paper, though one that can't 
seem to hold any more ink. I read 
that long ago, women slept 
with the words they wrote 
all day in secret, by the window
or under a tree while they waited 
for lovers or the lady they served. 
Then, a mere gesture overflowed. 
Honey on the spoon and on the tongue.
Children still children, until
they no longer were. Clouds formed only on the bottom of tea cups. These days, I write but don't necessarily feel unburdened. Too many dead, too many dying; and this heart of moss wanting to be a sail filling up with wind: not a scroll with all the names of everyone it has lost.

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