And
is it the same things
we
say or don’t say as
we
talk past each other
the
same things that pour
through
the air
between
us, smashes
into
our ears, our hearts,
because
we are designed
to
talk into hearts
to
each other
with
each other
the
heart
hearts
can forget
not
remember
mis-remember
dis-remember
it’s
not enough
you
can’t force
hearts
to talk
to
hearts
not
on my own
my
own life
but
my words come
quickly
now
easily,
a torrent
perhaps
with blood
like
poppies, red
growing
in the field
not
ceramic but
red
poppies, thousands
germinating
in each life
left
in each grave
a
poppy is unmarked
uncelebrated
no
monument with words
fading
from rain
wind
cold
chipped
by heat
the
heart escapes
Photograph by Fabrizio Conti via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
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