On Love

And just inside this heart I see a certainty raising its head,
giving the lie, utterly, to my famed belief in not knowing.

And now I can feel the warmth of the air on my arms
and the trail of a comet caught in an ellipse around the sun
shines dimly in the dark sky as it passes the orbit of Venus.

I step indoors, closing the door, shutting out further portents,
leaving the future to its own devices for a short while,
while I run a bath and find my place in this or that book.

And thinking absently in one direction or another it seems clear
that this heart is certain and I grow troubled by its certainty.

In another room I hear the kettle finish boiling. But I sit still,
feeling that amid the steam there is certainty. Amid the peace too.
Wherever I go it seems to come along with me and I blink,
worrying constantly that this dumb heart has grown so sure.

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