(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.
