mining the heart
the cardiologist
wears his own heart like antlers today he pushes a metal trolley through yards of arteries to weed your heart wings of old newspapers canary claws a scapular feather cover the sign you are entering the heart a workplace where there is always the anvil the heat of hammers the beetle mallet its repetition a lantern of pulley and flywheel joins the fury of blood as carts of forgotten sunlight fall on your wrist the cardiologist removes his davy lamp and closes the valve
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