A Cargo of Green Hearts
Today my bear self slipped out the back door
didn't even close it behind him, let the wind in to
rattle the house with its pointy, cold teeth. Wrecked the
neighbor's compost bin on the way into the darkness
that enveloped him the way a secret envelopes lips
and stamps them with a shudder. Left what was left
of me to go about the trudge of life: work, chores
distractions. See, when my animal leaves me
in this mortal hull, leaves me to the tame
sparrows that will peck out my eyes, leaves
me with the jigsaw puzzle language and head crowded
with marquee scripts, it's a warning: time to burn
something maybe. Time to go down into
the basement and roar until the house trembles
like a temporary heart. Time ride the bear
two fists of fur and face of brambles into the cave
under the lake where the dead are busy making
souls and the Night washes Her sun-frayed garments.
Nothing is more profound than the sight of a bear
kneeling beneath the earth of my love.
A shattering of logic, the kind of opening
Night requires in order to whisper the secret code
that unlocks the coffin for so long I've pretended was
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