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