Sunday, September 27, 2009


If a girl speeds toward a heart
at a constant rate of thirty-seven tears per week,
like a train pulled toward its destination
using different units and time,
how far is she from herself
when she falls into love?
And if a boy speeds toward the mind
at a constant rate of forty-three grins per day,
like a yellow-faced balloon smirking at its toddler
citing different motives and results,
how far is he from love
when he finds himself happy?

Through which tunnels do the smartest crawl
On which clouds do the loveliest float
Near which cross did the holiest hang
Year after year after year
Cradling hopes and dreams and reality
the latter striking all else dead.

My hands belong to him, him, and Him
my heart to them
my hopes to him
my dreams to him
my reality to Him.
What do I have
but the speeding train?