Hold a baby to your ear
to hear it go lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub.
Hold a balloon against you
to hear it go like an angry, constant wind.
Hold up a tiny bird
to hear it go bap-bap bap-bap.
Hold yourself still in a copse of trees
to hear the leaves flap flap flap like water over stones.
All of it is currents and reactions,
air and electricity and water in an unstudied play
of counterbalances and kickbacks,
like oceans and beaches,
because the sand has its rhythm, too,
waving beneath the water
as it undulates in its own pattern along the earth,
rising and dipping with its dune sisters
who run under the sun.
I lean against his chest, this only chest,
this meat that beats out its time on the earth
through a magic marriage of elements,
a wild, orchestral contraction coursing through the dirt,
and it tells my ear lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub.
I am spellbound.