The heart of most matters
is so trivial
that it's radical—
which blooms its
beautiful terrible roses
all through the tattered
blotting paper
of existence
with the wastefulness
of death, and yet
the poise of gravity,
til you're just
about ready to toss
the whole mess
but still recoil
at the thought
that one day
you'll be forced
in any case to give
it all away.