we bury our pain beneath
the flurry of activity and
hope that eddies stirred up will tow away our troubles -
forgetting that we are not infinite bodies, so interrupted
memories will recollect and erupt again upon us.
Buoyantly, buoyantly,
we float on the surface of social niceties, mindless recreation, endless business...
thinking that if we evacuate our minds of feeling,
our hearts can go on vacation -
instead our mines are set, without our really knowing
where they are, waiting to be exploded.
No, we'd rather not risk drowning
in an ocean of uncried and quiet fragility -
we'd rather not risk a broken heart, or endanger ourselves finding that
as it turns out, there isn't really one to break.
So as the tides come in
with the waning and the waxing
of eternal gravity,
There is a kind of absentmindedness in which we deal
with the unbearable lightness of being.
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