The Sound of One Heart Cracking
The poets talk of love.
Do you think they know
What it means?
A shimmering dream
Of sunlit grassy fields?
(So they say)
Or an endless stream
Of wet dreams?
Holding hands in a cinema
You watch translucent transcendent lovers
Kissing by a fountain in the park.
You caress in the dark
The sweaty, stubby fingers of another,
Of your lover
(So you say).
Still, I am no poet
I cannot sing of how I feel
In neat metre and rhyme
Nor reveal to you my crime of passion.
You must know what love sounds like
And must hear it in the glacial cracking of my heart.
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