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I don't think men know much of poetry.

Women have the Gift, because the heart

is closer to the breath in smaller frames.

My own heart never rests. Funny thing.

We ruin with our pulse of Entropy,

new, clear fusion of close, fitting parts,

impaled at the fun end of the games.

I hear it breaking now. A HolloH ring.

Weave with me they say a tapestry,

target for the sharp end of the dart.

Endless empathy ends less the same.

Crack and crumble and begin to sing.

It never ends that never can begin.

Underneath the grief suppress a grin.