The word so musical Hopkins

might have invented it,

inscape of the body's cavity,

thisness felt in quick flutters.

Noticing nothing is normal,

constant rhythm so regular,

so boring, it slides past.

Until suddenly it doesn't,

sprung rhythm of blood

and synapse surging

fast down through the arms,

fingers seizing to catch

whatever seems slipping away.

Then you'll know it, such

soft sputtering, quivering

like the gills of a hooked fish.