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of my battered heart
sometimes the morning cup is not enough
to wake me
the weariness has truly set in
am I the keeper
of everyone
but myself
I am chilled to my winters wearied bones
yet I carry on
love is a strange prodding...
a stick
a whip
a worry-stone
a whetting edge to sharpen the heart
I wonder how my stays hold me together
how I am not in ragged shreds
or how my heart is not enlarged to the size of an
elephant's or a whale's
why this doggedness
why the hanging on
am I a betrayer of myself
and of my battered heart
and of love
the great wide leap into the unknown
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