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Sometimes a rhythm no metronome could set,
the tap dancing heart kicking pulse points
in my neck. Here is the bridge
altering the cadence through to the final verse

And then in the dim stillness, I am
a silhouette contemplating gaslight
my almost steady heartbeat the hiss
of jets flaring orange for lack of oxygen

Some say a whole life can flash in moments
before the final breath is drawn, but my demise is languid;
my life slips into spaces left when the heart pauses
to consider the value of starting up again.

Life – and me in it – slips into spaces: a patch of sky,
pebbles and waves, the moment the whale breached,
sound of diesels on a distant road for milliseconds
revive and then wink out. The heart resumes.

Hugh Anderson lives and writes on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. At a time of life when he should just tend his grandchildren and his garden, the world has a nasty habit of intruding. He has published before in Praxis Magazine Online and recently in The Willawaw journal, Grain, RHP and Vallum.

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