Upper Hatchet Lake

Parts of my body suffer
in place of
my heart.
This may be because
the heart is not
a muscle,
but a bone that
is constantly broken
and reset.
But, what if we knew,
really, what
the heart was,
its endless echo,
its foreign language of
splitting wood
for a fire on a table
of rock cut in two
by the ice age?
If we knew how
many tries
it had left, the heart,
who would we be
then? Who would we
be if we learned
finally that
the sun, the centre of
the world, was also
96 million miles away from
this stone-hard bone?

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