Paradise of Weeping Hearts
"Overwhelming, the stop-motion of a world; is all the world so quiet to me.
She was sleeping. So peaceful when we are still--and they, are still.
How I miss the pond that never rippled. Outside home, the white swans,
Where did they all go? Travelled to oceans that move so fully, and slowly
--a paradise of girth. And we all get older, find others, in shapes of
Whatever, find affections, whatever it is to us--at evening meals, speaking
to us
In the not moving creases of rooms, corners of homes, humanness. It is
A weeping--a weeping murmur, in a corner sat, in mornings it slips
Back part on part to us, and so we can then weep in the day. The way
sunrise
Lights them--and sets upon bodies and brooks, painted onto the being,
Unseeable the arms, and legs, and breasts, until painted awake; I was once
Made of hearts and more revered the heart--longed the dense clinching
Flesh, and then, longed only a time, a still day, without its constrictions."
