In life I’m no longer capable of love,

of that old feeling of being
in love, such a rusty
feeling, rusty,

functionless
toy. In odd

sequential dreams
I can still love.
Love in the old way.

Here is a sweet lozenge.
Here is some broth,

on whose surface
I have floated
edible flowers.

I can feel the old feeling
where I used to feel it,

in my chest. 
In the dream I feel it,
but when I wake

the feeling is gone.
There isn’t a word

for the feeling that replaces it.
Not numbness or emptiness.
It is a nameless feeling.

Racy in its own way.
A racy new toy.