Longing lengthens. The heart muscles
over. What in the world is not a force
of its own reckoning. We worship
the sheen on the surface of the same lake
that let our girls drown. How easily we trade
our own breath for the idea that love is stronger
when slipped inside the idea of loss. To be human
is to be both the one who digs the well
and the one who feeds it poison, to hear
the village children shriek and call it music.
If you want to love, look at the world beyond
your looking. See. It is beautiful there, without you.