Pulse Poem by Wyn Cooper
Pulse
I put my hand on your wrist
not only to feel your skin
but to feel the blood below,
racing from heart to fingertip
and back, another lap
of the city of you.
Pulse of the city, pulse
of your state, pulse
of the nation contained
in your veins, vines
that grow grapes whose
wine we press tonight:
licorice, mineral, berries.
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5/1/2024 6:46:49 PM # 1.0.0.1119
good writing, thanks, I like it.