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.