Dark matter of my heart –
you can bruise and bully,
but still the impulse to take care
rises like the universe that throws
up its hands, and never brings them
back down again. Their ascent speeds
until fingers fly apart, manicured fireworks –
and my heart, too, is reeling out
in many universes: a field of flowers
blooming in fast-forward, and the pollen
blowing to France, and no replacing
the eggshells of our unspoken words,
and no end but some cosmic burnout.
At last we’ll care too much, be overstretched,
throw up our hands knowing full well
our arms will never close on anyone again.
Redemption: there are so many strings
to trace with our fleeting fingers,
so many bells ringing out the shards and shocks
of puzzle pieces bouncing on the kitchen floor.