I feed it, and it consumes one desire after another.
Hate, too, it will burn up, like shambling cities
At the turn of the last century.
Kick lanterns–my friends–at your own peril.
My heart runs cold. It knows not to care.
Husbands, boyfriends, mothers, fathers,
Sons and daughters are naught if not known to me.
My glacial passions will carve great swaths
Though ancient, sedimentary families,
Through green and vibrant lives.
Other hearts are lit with a softer passion,
Less fearsome in their consistency.
It is only fitting that they are called "warm."
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