If my heart was a fruit, I wonder how sweet it would be
if it was ripe or had spoiled or is not quite ready.
I wonder if in it there are seeds that would come out
and plant just to die and multiply
And I wonder if my heart is acually the seat of love
or if that lodestar, the love verb or love noun
is actually found somewhere else.
Maybe in the bowels
working itself up into the loins
turning and twisting and begging to express its guts
waiting for the courage just in case its met with rejection
Is it work or winning over or being with or is it washed away
like a cast away, like a coconut that just the halves are covering
our chests like armor or for modesty because to be naked is too vulnerable,
too much like love in dealing with flaws
that I might actually see in another being perfected
with generous eyes, with acceptance, with something dangerous
Hope _-__—-_—- the lingering kind
I hardly know when to give up or if I ever should have.