If we were contained in a frame
walled by an absolute nail
held at the strict angle
of an unyielding hand
this would be more than certainty
unbearably closer to drudgery
a twisting on the terms
of foresight and foreknowledge
and the variations therein

but the degree to which I fill my lungs
is a bit of breath I determine
and I know just as surely
that the song I sing
within the convex bounds of my soul
is an aria eternal
written through my veins
a note carried by every cell

the sound of you

what is it
that makes us this alive
is it the incessant heartbeat
or is it the feel
of our hearts beating