Today, I found myself
turning one more page
among the things I folded within this book—
there are petals
bleached under the weight of time,
and there are leaves
aged like good memories.
But how do I measure
all this treasure?

Someone may suggest
weighing my heart,
surely heavier than a feather,
but I would rather forge my chest
from a pound of iron
than live this quest
untouched.

No, forget the ancient gods of Egypt;
I have my own method:
Take your heart
and cast it—
let it scratch the sky
the farther, the better—
and when you imagine it,
pounding in the dirt,
lying somewhere at the mercy of the abyss
you will rush to rescue what you missed,
and in the instant you have it back there,
hammering against your ribs
feel the bliss,
don’t ask yourself
if you could have cast it any further.

The fear of losing it—
that’s the measure of a soul,
that’s your fabric.
And I live — in great terror.