Blood’s Bitonality
I know that you are heartbeats at my core
But more than that my feelings are impure.
Are you the syncopation in the score
My veins are writing, or are you the cure
For music’s failure? Are you maybe meant
As perfect rhythm and this harmony
Composers like my chest have always bent
Themselves to blend? Are you disharmony,
Petrushka-like, that works in different keys
Which clash together beautifully, ballet,
And clunking loveliness? You are the frieze
On pages in my Book of Hours. I pray
With images enclosing vellum sounds
My ribs are singing in their fugal bounds.