And
this, my very heart,
is
the weight of water
like
blood
bending
the blooms,
smoke
and mist graying tulips,
ash
on butterflies’ wings.
My
very heart! We bury
our
dead selves
swollen
but dry,
and
in this come alive—the lift
in
rain
and
rain and rain again.
My
very heart, see!
Instead
of the weight, the gray, the ash—
the
bloom,
the
color,
the
wings.