Your countertops hold fruits of
such glory,
but glory is such an ephemeral
thing,
and fruit, if not eaten,
turns quickly sour.
I suppose the same thing can be
said of words,
and butterflies,
wine, and silence,
and all those other silly
intoxicants
that I keep a little too close to
me these days.
So what's a man to do, but give
in,
and try to let love become his
only constant.
Your cupboards are vast and full
of such rich stock:
your memories have scale and
grandeur,
but funny thing about memory,
it can, so casually, toss your heart
in a cardboard box,
seal it with the sticky pull of
packing tape,
pull down the clanging metal
door,
and click the padlock closed
until you only take it out
so you can reminisce about
who you were.
I fear to lose it, too,
But I prefer to carry my heart
sewn into the laces of my shoes
where I can pick everything up
along the way:
all that dirt and dew.
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