The wind blows through the hole
in my heart, it is my window, my oriel,
the only one I have there. Bare and sole
it is my lucarne I can’t close nor seal,
through which easy glances and devout prayer
pierce raw, like nails to a cross.
Now and again, if the wind is fair
I’ll sit on the edge of a hole,
between the ivy & the moss,
that fits the world all whole.
It is the breach I can’t cry shut,
but you can hear shatter over and over
again, it is my stained-glass window cut
out of God’s cathedral somewhere about
I can’t see. Hear, the wind shiver
it’s lyrics through, such a long fine dagger,
carving the windy passage out,
thin and red.
My Ariadne’s fleece thread!
The seasons find it often, this lone
embrasure, to rest a while.
Why won’t you lay your head down,
in my hole in the heart, gal?
First with your hair, then with your mouth
then with your hands, in the vault
lay… Lay! It is rough and uncouth,
an oyster without
its long hewn pearl, thrown in the deep.
It is my hole in the heart,
my hole in the heart, steep,
on which I cut myself sometimes,
Photo: CHATTY OWL ~ https://www.instagram.com/chattyowl/