And can it be that I, woman of clay,
worn time-thin like work pant knees,
lie awake this fog-new morning hour
rolling about school-girl dreams
like a wood ball on glass?
Can it be that this blue-veined hand,
grown bone and claw, is yet soft enough
to excite more than a new day’s brown loaf
from three worked cups of white flour?
These two cheeks, fallen and hollow,
have lost their dew.
They have made caves where
shadows hide from that sun
where lovers alone abide.
Cruel is the human heart, merciless and proud,
refusing to take up the gravity proper to age
while the body is pulled low to the earth
from which it came. The heart alone dances.
The heart alone dances, as if I should gain
by it some release from this long, stale prison.
The heart alone dances,
as if love fell from the heavens
easy as the laugh of a newborn baby;
as if romance made beauty,
and not beauty romance;
as if the hem of heaven might swing down
upon these dusty roads,
close enough to reach.
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