The mechanism of my body is ticking away the moments:
clinical seconds, dehydrated hours, years washed too clean.
The orbit of my ribs makes its rounds with momentous clicking
felt as a ripple- a forte into seizure.
There's something industrial in the alignment of these organs:
A factory of ventricles straining against the assembly line.
I'm a blood clock, tragic motor; I'm an organism
too mechanical to hold.
With a liver like a coal burner and lungs to expel the smoke,
how can I find a way back to being human.