A child, I felt
a danger dwelt
chest-deep. My heart.
Could that odd part
do what it must
non-stop? To trust
my life to this . . .
So tenuous!
But now, although
death’s closer, no
such fear. I’ve seen
what a machine
I am. All stays
the same, my ways
fixed, firm. I do
the things I do
unstintingly,
unthinkingly,
unfruitfully,
my constancy
no trick, no sham.
It’s what I am.
I’ve other fears
as darkness nears;
my heart’s not one.
That doubt is done.
The heart’s a pump.
Pumps pump.
Pumps pump.