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 infinite 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
in the convex bounds of my soul
is an aria eternal
written across my veins
a note carried in 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

(06 sometime...)