Cheap， made to travel they throw their tiny drumbeats out in stereo from the bed table
to the work station. They fill the room
with a music of ticking， only just out
of synch. It could be maddening，
Poe's buried heart， or that spinning toy，
a shuttlecock， ratcheting over nylon cord
slap， slap， slap. Or the body's racket
in the blood， the slow tock of sex undone.
It soothes， they do， soothe， the ping-pong
rhythm of their second-clapping hands：
red line， a vein between this and that.