It’s not a thundering
but a rhythmic stutter,
a seizing beat,
a rapidfire-horse-hooves-in-the-mud kind of pounding,
like it could
break through
its bone cage,
a strange clattering
of opened-wing hopes
and clutched-talon fears,
a gasping,
reaching,
aching
kind of pulse,
a throb
with force enough to
bend backs
and weaken knees,
with power enough
to raise gods
and topple empires,
this whole,
this thing,
this heart,
and
in its echoing chambers,
the name it sings
is yours.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who can say so much with so few words, Jones.