For Heine

Too pitiful to love the arch
tangled in systemic cold
blood is not too pitiful
to scorn infinitefold,

or lay to waste in sanity
resurfaced to reflect the void
of love in lieu of love to be
even right now enjoyed,

when we are not ready for it
being still catastrophic
and still hurting too much inside
being too idiotic,

or lay to rest in fantasy
abandoned to the brain
whose roots of fire will not be
torn out ever again,

not far beyond which real life
resplendent in concrete
spirals to extinction too fast
for real love to compete.