my heart moves slowly

in rooms my heart moves slowly,
slower than life, faster than death;
it yearns for, and receives,
nothing but stale blood.

inside, the tyranny of an eye
marking time in blinks until
the cold hour of heartbreak
captures another soul
as yourself, ticking,
spinning;
looking? yes.
locking? no!

in forests, too, my heart has moved slowly,
like a mosquito
caught by the autumn breeze,
leg by leg losing its grip
on a precious arm-hair

is it absurd to delight in leaves
while trees are falling?
are we not focused on the slightest movements -
like squirrels!

that is why
with others, my heart remained slow;
faster than sitting, but slower than dance,
when, momentary, hands and eyes lock
and blood moves:

I stopped listening after I heard a rumor that
Poetry wants to marry Dance,
because flowers detest the light of store lamps;
and Music pounds the young Night, every night!

///

deaf man James hears,
gouges out his eyes, and dies -



what is this madness?

the future never comes to the rescue!
and the past is lost!>

I call on you, the undying whale, resurface!

a hook pierces my sluggish heart!
I am dragged through the vast ocean!>

it hurts more than hell
but blood proves
fresh life;



life is now like warm tea,
but memory dies never,
tea turns cold,
and the ocean widens itself!



I freeze
as now
and view
myself, the moon,
again, newness,
Loses another war!

Yet at the south pole,
one beacon of hope remains unlit:

On another July night I will return to the hemisphere I know best
and by my side
she will ask, have we ever budged an inch?

I say an answer will greet your warm hands.>

What is Death but the final movement of Life?