Nerves

White cool box
that pulses, remembers, can’t know for sure.
Inanimate.
Emptied in a February freeze,

Contents tipped down white, crumbled cliffs
to a tealgreen, icy sea.

The spark is gone.
Quenched
in the water. Sweeping debris out to the expanse.

Sometimes driftwood takes years to resurface.
A polished piece planed and smoothed by salt and sea
is quite different the second time around.

When you cut off a chicken’s head, it’s
the nerves
Which keep it running round
for hours afterwards.

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