Heart-things

My dusk is a disorganized rose,
adorned with raindrops. 

I lie in bed 
sorting the pieces.

We collect. 
Because in absence of the empirical, 
our logic.. 

Well, 
it’s a bit
pallid. 

It’s hard to stand 
without muddy feet. 

And the day’s fragments,
spinning towards night, 
smell like heart-things: 
eucalyptus covers,
bedraggled books, 
spicy tea,

and the distance,
the cold wide distance,
the crashing of the sea.