Can the heart burst silently?
	Or is there one, great
	Percussive bang,
	From which bits and pieces
	Fly in all directions
	Like the detonation of a shell?
	Or does feeling just dissolve
	Like a smell,
	Becoming thinner, thinner,
	Until nothing more remains?
	Perhaps there's just a ping,
	When the brittle, red muscle
	Cracks and splits
	Like an overheated china bowl.
	Or maybe,
	Like an aged brick,
	The heart just crumbles away
	To dust,
	Dark, brown, dry and bitter.
	Some hearts live,
	Others die.
	Some explode, others
	Melt away like snow
	Before the spring.
	A few endure.

Probably Spring 1974

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