Breathing is only
an allergic reaction,
a kneejerk answer to the
thing called death.
Slow intake and discharge,
drawing air into
cramped lungs,
grains of sand sliding
and sticking to the
thighs of unwed mothers

while they swallow empty
years with wine and remember
not to drown.

Beneath them the weight
of occupied space is
an invisible crush,
caressing like peaches
or sweat, a reminder of
soft skin and long nights.

Marbles tumble from unresponsive
lips, dry stones never sticky -
sweet with love. A moment, a
pause, the final absolution
an explosive exhalation.

10/20/2002

Posted on 10/20/2007
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