The amputated human hearts pulse in the great glass jars.
As moist and wincing red as pigeon feet, the breathing hearts
Oscillate endlessly in fluid ambiguity,
And isolated, pickle in the brine of phantasy.
The jars will never be unsealed, nor can the heart be joined,
Healed, to the breast. For in that vacuum, that fatal void
Between the unreal and the real, between the brine and breast
The heart will burst. And we, compassionate, cannot redeem
The prisoned hearts, nor save the crippled men, the fear- oppressed,
Who only suffer love within the prism of a dream.
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