that the metronome of your heart
stopped, so that sometime
in the night, alone in your tent, you
free-fell through eternity’s blue fathoms.
You once spoke to me of the soft
skin of my shoulders; we sat in your dark cabin,
We went out to scan the stars, and you
whispered, Look at the man with his violin,
to the west.
Look now, George: there is a constellation
no one has noticed: it is a metronome
set like a clock to the gallop
of the human heart.
And above where you slept
pulse and disappear.