For Melanie and Peter


Days pass.

The heart is a mute and fluttering thing
and drifts and the days swill as the head fills and the pale heart is dully muffled.
Pour out your heart
and the thirsty day soaks it in.

We poor believers hear our own mute thoughts and believe
that we are heard.
And we hear nothing
through our form-stiff space,
and we doubt.

Bridge—dare—pour out and root
your poor and mute and frustrate heart.
Shine in use, naked imcompleteness,
by rioting out your heart
in letters on a page.

Say: This. Now. Here.
I know this to be true.

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