When I close my eyes
and sit quiet
at night
posed
just right,
I can finally hear my heart—
but
I'm not talking
about the beating.
It's the rhythm
of each tiny
valve opening
and then
quickly clicking
shut again which interests me—
an implicit code,
like the golden words
inscribed in thought-bubbles above
pictures of those
tortured, pious
Dark Ages saints:
everything that's now silent
must be
heard eventually.
Everything we don't see
must inevitably
be witnessed;
but—just because anything
is going to happen
for certain
doesn't necessarily mean
it'll be
understood.
