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The heart loves what it wants to love.
It goes where it has to go. It beats for you before your birth, without asking you until your death. It is serving you now, flowers on stems, silver on wrists, the pulse for perfume, ears full of music, slants of color. Little child leaning at the balcony. Large horses running for joy. This is the song you don’t listen to. The boy says, “There’s a clock in me.” It is ticking out thanks. This troubadour, this saint. - from the PoemHolders project |
