Irregular as Clockwork
I have known
the clockwork of the heart.
I know it to be as constant as a moment,
as buoyant as concrete
as predictable as life.
I know it to be as volatile as appetite.
as certain as doubt’s shadow,
as capricious as the sun’s agenda.
a rhythmic jolt within the detainment of my body.
venturing to verify existence.
echoing the deafening cry of silence.
in erratic ecstasy.
with raw apprehension.
with unrestrained longing.
as fractured as splintered wood.
above skies of untouchable and weightless euphoria.
between the jagged edges of consciousness.
like red pepper seers the inside of a vein.
at the shift of relativity.
like a boulder to the chest.
In frivolously vital giddiness.
With the weight of fallen possibility.
In divine wonder.
as a small bird with a million places to be, but nowhere to go.
In the sweetness of recollection.
It can be stilled
- Oh yes, it can be stilled.
And what of the heart when it is cold, motionless?
The answer lies not in its function,
but in its continuation;
Living still in the off-beat of another,
rising and falling in erratic rhythm,
for it is, I have always known,
as irregular as clockwork.