I cannot love. This heart is a forest


and I don't need flowers


or insensitivity, like a cold rock thrown in an ice blue sleep. I don't need words
of praise or peace


or hands to build a house amidst my leaves; i am a blowing thing
of rampant insecurities and dashing,
thriving beasts; I don't need lips
to touch sweetly, nor a trail blazed, nor fellow tree to spend dark evenings


amidst the howling, hushing brush; I ache already
in the moist morning
where your feet have trampled
such delicacies.





________________





Maybe I am dreaming of what love is supposed to be.

You cannot fill me, as no one can

for a creature's heart is empty. And I

am not that vase or glass, not fine

enough to fill myself with sand;

What is as hollow

as your cupped hands?

Love is small, and five fingers can hold nothing.