Four-Thirds-North

Minute hand precision, and she’s picking at the gears.
Trying still to pinpoint Four-Thirds-North, Sharp-Left-At-Lungs.
Diplomatically negotiating every vein
Minute hand precision keeps her sane.

Up she edges, to the place somewhere Spot-On the heart.
Somewhere, somewhere, trying still to pinpoint Past-The-Lungs,
Where she left a mark, a dent, a smudge, a blur, a stain.
Where he finally recognized her pain.

Frantically she searches, searches, cannot find the scratch.
Golden in the sterile light, his clockwork structure glints,
Her eyes jump and weave about, but cannot see the pit.
Where Spot-On-The-Heart his heart had split.

Soon her frenzied searching hovers down, towards the mid.
And between his metal lungs and All-Too-Human-Heart,
She is interrupted through her All-Too-Human Eye,
Resting on a flustered butterfly.

Resting on an insect resting in his stomach’s well,
Wondering what business it might have inside the frame.
And before her startled fingers something starts to beat,
Wings upon the Heart-So-Obsolete.

And she’s crying, crying, ‘cause his eyes are lit on her,
And she sees the cavity, the place his organ split,
When she fell for something, someone she had thought a corpse.
He is blinking as the clockwork warps.