Sandstone

Is the heart full if it can’t stand up on its own?

When it’s lying against the soft skin of the belly

With hair looking like windswept coastal trees- one direction blown

The pool hall is missing a ball and it’s not a colour they’ve known before

Or is it a special kind of sandstone? A carved perfection

A kind of key that only the wetness of youth can touch

It is held there by the stalk- a long fleshy throne

An anchor to the spine, and an anchor to the gods

The hollowness inside is kept alive by the new construction

The fresh explosions that roll forth with every tingling

And the sandstone crumbles against the autumn breeze

Driven back by the timeless exhale

Working for the tenderness of slippery reality

Will men of the future be able to believe in this?

Will we be able to walk away from these thoughts at our deaths?

Will our hearts be the reasons that we keep on walking?

Suppose, for an instant, there was no heart on the stalk

No beauty in the world

So, yes, it keeps us beating, keeps us thundering

Keeps us bidding on one another’s sandstone

Until it is dawn and we are asleep amongst the stains

Alone with hearts tucked between thighs