I thought I heard steps in the house, but
it was the black tunnel of my own heartblood.
A flood in old caves,
the lost pulse of nightfall.
Smoke in my eyes,
I am as empty as an old suitcase.
( for Syria)
Flywheels enamel
with heartblood,
aortal ticks hesitate
before the dull bang
of a falling fist;
the fat knuckle
of the next hit,
tick tick the small ones,
the eaters of dust,
stone-eyed they
fall apart like lost time,
the weights that
regulate all this
are unbalanced.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.