Lines, Why Don’t We Lead Home?

Hearts clench their fists
In the dark.
More than one kind
Of dark heart—

There’s the cell’s heart
Clenched in fats,
The hearts of grass
In swards of slats.

The hearts of stars
Start as gas
That burns to holes
That go black.

And all hearts grasp
And let go,
Then grasp and loose
And let go

At last, like poems,
Like all thoughts
Of home—dark art
Of the heart.