twitch

      Didn’t need it:
My right arm,
    Or side-same atrium
            Of harvested heart;
  Couldn’t breathe
Any-damned-way—
        Pulmonary disequilibrium.

        That atrocious wreath’d
Already been hung o’er
  You and me,
            I’d say;
    A chalk-lined non-start,
A-fib’d to flat,
      But a beep or two away…

      Ne’er so much wanted
To be poor, torn-apart,
    Or gone.
            Wish granted, son.
  A box here,
A holy bag there,
        A yellow envelope—

        All stuffed with more
Hurtful no-mores.
  And I keep them
            To a shelf,
    Just to ignore, I swear…
A so-quiet scream.
      Bygone’s a bitch:

      She’s a bridge aflame
Felled to the stream—
    Yet, in my leftmost
            Atrium,
  A tiniest itch:
The scarcest twitch
        Of soon-gasping dream.

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    Poetry: Well-lit
        https://windstrewn.com/2020/01/10/well-lit/