Between Beak and Stone

It isn’t me but my heart that hopes.
I’m trying to rise above it
running up the soaped-up slide
that forms our past, which form
impresses itself upon the future
by that delinquent organ.

Desire, that two-edged razor
forms the other side of that projector
and cuts the hand that holds it
when all it finds is stone.

I would love you if I could
without possession, as you wish
and you would love me too
but neither can achieve that trick
we’ve much discussed. But hope?

That’s another thing. Even gods
themselves are impaled between
the beaks of birds and stone.

© Dan Goorevitch 2008