One Hundred Moving Parts of Love  •  poems by lenny dellarocca

One Hundred Moving Parts of Love

When she spoke about her grandfather’s walnut trees
I remembered something
out of a book
about a man who
stood on a hill
outside town.
Stood there all
night playing guitar
for a woman
who didn’t love him.
I thought maybe
her grandfather
was the man in that
novel. Someone
I knew somehow.
She kept on with
her story about
earth and sunlight.
She said something built from the soul is not made
by the heart
though there is
blood in it.
And then she kissed me.
I saw in her eyes
that I missed
the last train.
Places move back
and forth under our feet
like clouds, she said,
because falling forever
is the same as standing still.
And she could not
love me. She said
a harvest is a work
of art in the sky,
a museum of the
ground made from the beautiful left hand of the world.

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