My Pulse

My pulse

brushes its fingertips


cochlea and canal,


sand and aural glitter.

I listen

to my arrhythmia,


into sleep along its


stumbling. Sometimes, instead,

it slides

a thin-edged knife along

the line

of my jawbone. Sometimes

it pounds

like an ex-lover who


did listen, becoming

all I hear.

Sometimes my pulse just stops,


like a dancer in mid-leap,


as if gravity

has lost

its grip. I open

my eyes

to see what happens next.

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