Cave

My heart dies to this--

The vapid, open-organ music,

that you love.

But still my throat thrums beneath

The open-tummied tuck and trick;

The toil of hooves over intestine;

The visceral beat that hurts me.

Company pretends to know;

Seems to know the beat.

Yet, I feel I am the only one

Who knows the pulse of time.

Perhaps I breathe to time and space,

Tho' most breathe to shallow

withdrawal and empty arms.