maybe von helmholtz got it wrong
when he measured the speed
of nerve conductivity
as eighty feet per second,
at once diminishing that flash
of inspiration or sudden
flush of cheeks
to little more than data points
to be collected, collated
and eventually reduced
to math.
i can’t be sure if emily
counted out each footstep
from her front porch
to the home next door
intent on leaving one more note
about an evergreen love
never able to fully bloom
given her singular time and space.
but i’d like to think that eighty
steps was all it took
to bridge that gap
(however briefly) between
another heart and hers
so painfully near
and just down
the garden path.
(for emily dickinson)
