the kind of beat you live in
the kind of beat you get when you’ve lived
which is it that’s drowning me?
Between the Beating Clocks
Cheap, made to travel they throw their tiny drumbeats out in stereo from the bed table
to the work station. They fill the room
with a music of ticking, only just out
of synch. It could be maddening,
Poe’s buried heart, or that spinning toy,
a shuttlecock, ratcheting over nylon cord
slap, slap, slap. Or the body’s racket
in the blood, the slow tock of sex undone.
It soothes, they do, soothe, the ping-pong
rhythm of their second-clapping hands:
red line, a vein between this and that.
— Crystal Bacon
Don’t stop the music.
p.s. what a poet name, eh?