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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