the heart, and burial places known and unknown

loving, and singing,
the heart paced
on night feet through the desert
that lies between you on god's mountain,
and a home whose name you don't know.

the heart
swoons
like a femme fatale slipping
with her frighteningly slim waist
onto a couch.  the heart

knows how to get what it wants.  it is natively
neither open nor closed, but is something
like a goldfish;
it opens its mouth to sip its tiny breaths,
then closes so as to think it over for awhile.
the heart

is simpler than all of this:
two middle-aged men with earlocks
will stand across from one another,
holding each others' hands;
they'll revolve in slow circles, dancing
just one night of the year, every year,
over caleb's grave.

but singing in an ever-lowering voice,
your heart might find itself ready
to sleep.  the longing
grew too long, the desire and gold dirt
ever-lengthening away from you.  it is a good
place to die, this place, to be gathered
up, it is a good place to rest,
sings sleepily the heart.