the shoulders of the heart


this poem will never be finished

her grace, gentle to calm
an outstretched and anxious palm,
quiets all storm of memory,
her own tide awash a melody
of opaque recognition that,
by definition, is a hazy spell
no slumber can break, no number
of make-believe apparitions, to
wrap her heart in such toughness
as to clear the lane of her progress
from debris, her grace unto me
is the pinpoint of light that
steadies and readies my own
night as it descends and unbends,
her grace, gentle and calm.

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