Heartbeat
Writing
what I write
seems now right,
now trite;
feels as though
my drum-tight
heart, a-dream,
beats reveille
or retreat: goes
“Plink-plonk”,
“Clash!”
“Thud!”
“Boom!!”
“Thud-thud!!!”
and even song-like
— “Tara-tarum” —
all night:
tempo
tracking temper
in time
with the tune
plucked
upon its strings
dawn to dusk —
tattoo
at dead of night
in light of life
led out of bed
— But the echoes
are louder —
sounding bounds
beyond
day’s doings
and undone —
heartening,
like wine
— heady memory;
or harping
harked to sleepless,
steeped
in deepening, deepening
dark: a-cringe
at creepy
shades, stark,
of horror
hallowed
to the marrow;
narrowed
strait — shaft
fraught
with downward
drafts —
arrowed
straight from yew
of yore
bent and bowed
from heretofore
— past held fast
in closing fist,
tarrying
and carrying on
like grass-widow
armed with writ
of indexing finger
(to wit, graffiti
graven
under gavel
— plus downing thumb —
at long last);
digit now crooked
undeniably
in demand:
in command
— casting
giant shadow
— taunting, haunting
hologram unvaunted —
to harry, harrow,
blast and blight;
married
to morrow — if,
indeed, dawn
it might —
