the hum of my heart's thrum

A red thread laces past the Channel
from chest to chest
taut; upon it a dancer skips
like the last straw upon a camel

without a rest,
his toes, they
pick and twang and pluck
the string on which they
sit.

the dancer skips
with sprightly hips.
he is
dissent that rends us both asunder,
the scent of coming thunder

I reject his surmise
yet resent it not;
I am no slave to expectation
and though it causes me great pain
I will weather welts

you ask: what have I to gain,
bartering three fingers for a thumb?
I point to the red thread the dancer strums
and say" to not be numb.
to hear the hum of my heart's thrum."