Love in the direction of the gutter

A Year with Kabir

A thin heart.

Of debris. The leaves could be feathers,

nesting. It seems significant.

That everything is caught

on the rough road before the sewer’s gate.

Everything in this moment

has arrived.

Broken.

The rain broke free from cloud.

Leaf from stem.

And I.

Can I speak of my heart?

And the everyday gravel? I didn’t want to be a refugee.

Leaves.

Gutter heart.

I’ve been there.

I am here.

To get to hereafter mercies, is there a road ahead?

Or am I going to make one?