His heart
Was poorly woven
The hard basket fiber, unwilling to smoothly coil
He should have covered his heart when the boughs were green and supple
Then he was too cow, too young to know, the necessity of armor
Her face and the impossible smallness of her hands
Bewitching in their ignorance of the portent they held
Her shape, as if molded from river clay, set in sunlight
How could he realize then
The clamoring of his emotions
Drowning out the part where sense lay
Still and sirene
His heart
Was poorly woven
He did not regret
This fact