A-Fib
lives inside this lie: heartbeats simply sync up the body’s clock and repeat in one direction. Truth is, like two boots in snow retracing their tracks, every ticker tip- toes over ground once covered, till each beat flips to face what path its tread and sprints home- sick toward beginning— marking, as comets do, its pinnacle by all it burns off in turning, the skin grown hot cooks layers it forgot to shed, till the flesh is lens our blood pools under like a stoplight sunk inside the body— a rewinding so gaudy it blinds us to the future, days of which simply drift away unnoticed, beats we bargained off for a less distant dark and this thought, small enough to carry: between two unknown points the shortest walk is always the one already traveled.