(Petal, tunnel)

My fisted heart, grey with the years, beats with a pitiable valour.   It is soft as an old dishcloth, and is beginning to put out feelers: a few thumbs arising slowly from the cardiac clutch.  In a few years, this chamois heart will begin to nose around for support.

The nave of the body, old ribcage-cathedral, is the weary heart's home (it's a lightbulb protected by a lampshade).  We are vaulted, pre-stressed, arched like hope.  Inside the chest is like inside a whale.  Let me soon go to the sea.