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

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