lives inside this lie:
heartbeats simply sync
up the body’s clock
and repeat in one
direction. Truth is,
like two boots in snow
retracing their tracks,
every ticker tip-
toes over ground once
covered, till each beat
flips to face what path
its tread and sprints home-
sick toward beginning—
marking, as comets
do, its pinnacle
by all it burns off
in turning, the skin
grown hot cooks layers
it forgot to shed,
till the flesh is lens
our blood pools under
like a stoplight sunk
inside the body—
a rewinding so
gaudy it blinds us
to the future, days
of which simply drift
away unnoticed,
beats we bargained off
for a less distant
dark and this thought, small
enough to carry:
between two unknown
points the shortest walk
is always the one
already traveled.
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