the warmth we call love when it’s pure
the way music is the language
of the angels and speech is ours
then maybe we’re all talking at once
and too much with every breath
so no one can hear anyone else
while anyway the tongues of flame
are getting into position above us
and quickening rains are moving
the flowers forward into the ovens
of summer to be cooked and eaten
every year the harvest of ignorance
grows a few inches smaller until
one day only the heart will exist
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