I have a heart like a wheelbarrow,
there are no windmills in my mind.
Love blows in and floats around freely
like the wind – getting in the way
of other things.
This rootless love without design,
which has no object, point or point of origin –
one looks for it in every face,
looking for somebody to become that place
where everything that falls apart
falls into place.
It seeks definition, a place of rest,
to find its home in a woman’s breast –
to die there, or multiply there.
When, surely, to keep it to oneself
would be best.
John Tottenham 