Sometimes you wake at night
and feel the pulsing of love
in your heart.
You sort through your catalogue of love,
the many-coloured samples.
Sometimes you paint love with sweeping brushstrokes
into your dark corners
and it seeps deep down
to the places you thought
you had carefully sealed.
Your work is particular
but not always measured.
You linger, sometimes, over a detail,
something particularly fine;
but sometimes you are so saturated
it is like water seeping through your barricades,
slipping in and loosening the boards,
and finding its way even between
so that you are slowly pulled apart,
splintered, and then fragmented,
into a dusting of particles, like sand;
and you can no longer gather yourself
into the shape
of what you once were.