Throbbing is the sunflower,
throbbing is the sea, one two three
periods in a row—no, not periods,
ellipsis—and on and on the locusts go.
Silly boy scrubbing at a spot, solar eclipse
projecting half-bitten dot in the pinholed box.
And throbbing is the head upon the breast,
throbbing the knot inside the chest
so I can hardly say your name. Trains
rattle down by the river, the finger
with its sliver throbs, the first
Monday of every month, Grandmother polished
the silver. Is life just intervals of pulses,
ripples spreading on a lake
from where the rock was tossed? Do not
forsake me darling though we be carried off.
Every instance has its day and night,
every inkling is full of blinks,
the power going on and off so fast
we can hardly think until here comes a storm,
poor dog scuttled under the bed, poor dream
we recall almost not at all no matter
how we cling because throbbing is the sea
and we be torn apart.