the heart does not speak of beats
time and tide sway and dictate
the whittling of a day
in blue advances and retreats;
some day, we will be free.
we are mirrors broken,
all and one,
throwing crooked veins of light
against the sun.
in my garden bower,
a heliotrope throws itself to the ground.
i cannot tell you the taste of this;
love is an animal that eats the tongue,
and never makes a sound.