Pulse
There goes the tips of those trees again.
Lapping up wood chips.
Like a dustpan.
I had a pulse.
Somewhere in the bushes.
Strangling.
There goes the steam on that train.
Blushing with dark smoke.
I have enough coffee to make the world derail.
Enough about me and nothingness.
There is a pulse like me out there.
Eats things like veins.
Hurting like teeth chomping cold air.
Or other odd things.
There goes that tree again.
He brushes off dust and leaves fall down too.
He acts casual about it.
As if leaves are a pulse that grows back.
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