My Pulse

My pulse

brushes its fingertips

against

cochlea and canal,

scattering

sand and aural glitter.

I listen

to my arrhythmia,

sliding

into sleep along its

drunken

stumbling. Sometimes, instead,

it slides

a thin-edged knife along

the line

of my jawbone. Sometimes

it pounds

like an ex-lover who

never

did listen, becoming

all I hear.

Sometimes my pulse just stops,

paused

like a dancer in mid-leap,

balanced

as if gravity

has lost

its grip. I open

my eyes

to see what happens next.

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