We know the heart an electric thing.
That could be metaphor, but song
is not the tune we sing. Strictly
electricians marking square by square
the dance, the points, the pirouettes,
offbeat rhythms, jazz, tap—
the heart’s choreography transcribed as graph.
A metronome of background noise
behind our days, our monitors reflect
an accidental poetry of line
in epic greens and grays.