Photo by Keba Evans Copyright 2006


How sensitive, how thin
(beneath we're a bundle of nerves),
this wrap of skin
covering the curves
of bountiful, doomed flesh.
Inside, the stations
of the pulse pump fresh
red, ticking off quarts and gallons.
There are clocks inside the heart,
head, crotch--wound and cocked--
ready to go off, to stop or start
our day's machinations, codes locked
into each cell. We're metered birth to death:
every heartbeat, every breath.

by Philip Miller

Philip Miller's poems have appeared in many journals, including Confrontation, Poetry, and Rattapallax, with work forthcoming in Poetry Wales and Home Planet News, among others. His sixth book, The Casablanca Fan, will appear this year from Unholy Day Press. He recently co-edited (with Gloria Vando) an anthology of ghost poems, A Chance of a Ghost (Helicon Nine Editions). He lives in PA and edits The Same.

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