Peter Kline

Heart Murmur

When it’s not there, everything’s normal. Days
              prowl or scamper, swim howl or play dead
              with an animal’s pure regard for surfaces,
              no sense of absence, nothing underlying.
              A cut thumb merely bleeds and stings
              and a squirrel’s pushpinned eye is a curious thing.

Then it comes, or I do, into the world where
              there is no being without it. A doubling
              murmur in the heart’s chamber
              twins all things with their sordid nature.
              It rips you right in two. Careful, friend,
              which one of me it is you’re comforting.