dark continent

how is the heart
of a dark continent
pounding within and calling
as I sit so carefully
on my porch,
waving to neighbors
and taking tea?

why is the “someday”
I read about
never here?

when I place a note
inside my book
to keep my place-
to keep my heart from floating
above me
like a rare twisted pentecostal votive,
it burns inside
but is imminently safer
than opening
and casting my fiery breath
too far
across my pastoral scene

what if it’s too late
when I finally arrive?