The heart not dead
but numb with grief
writes in the leaves of other’s books.
Ripe, dipped in fire, like horses
stumbling on crooked paths.
Writes, the numb heart, to quell
the stillness, stagnant, writes
to find the further stillness of motion.
Writes, the numb, to dispel
the reflection, the reflecting thing,
mirror held up to mirror,
that makes the heart feel dead,
but it is not; numb,
numbed, stunned, the heart, ripe,
dipped in fire. The heart a
horse to keep moving, outward,
stumbling away from the stillness
to the newer stillness where
numbness and grief are forgot.