You cannot recognize yourself
In the eerie coming of my heart
whose beat has mimed your beat Hungry, twice for nighttime
starkly, slick or liquid by rote.
all salt and sinew seek to keep
mad creatures from clocking at my throat's slim thumping.
Like a cannon, cold and still,
might nonetheless hurl raw
a sack of metal cured in heat.
You may, lost for choice, take a chance and thin hot
fingers for the feast.
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