Thursday, May 04, 2023

Making My Heart Beat

Sure. The whole project misconstrued or misconceived.
Thunderstorm at dawn: deep dark with lightning,
and now a morning pretending nothing ever happened,
but a gore of draggled blossom spread across the walk.

A wire threaded through the ribcage
might grow warm with each flash, and every kettledrum roll
could start something speaking, it seems, it seems
for a little while, it seems but it stops with the rain.

That Danish cockatoo decided, better not: and reading
his poisonous note, about the weak despair of women,
I can hardly not agree with him: better not. 
Still the nails drive deep, and the hands flex 

of their own accord. Another breath, and another: 
almost steady now, almost I could imagine that my breath
has caught its rhythm and could go on by itself: I am tired, so tired,
of making myself breathe; of making my heart beat.

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