Heartbeat - by Stephen Seabridge

Heartbeat 

 

Going up the hill the heart

is a song of detonation, 

 

a pulse and judder

as I suck in cold air 

 

and trick my lungs

into believing they are not burning. 

 

It must burst someday,

splinter open like a clam. 

 

I'm sure that when I'm pounding

pavement, watching a white cottage

 

as I pass it by, catching the glimpse of a fox

scamper away from the noise of my soles, 

 

it will burst in colour and energy

like the firework streaming light. 

 

This heart and its atria

with its filigree of butterfly wings, 

 

its veins a constellation of blood,

a collage of transit cells 

 

as it stretches and shrinks, on repeat,

like a clock ticking in the dark.


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