Something of BreathingWho caresabout your arms,elbows and knees,cartilage screaming, worndown to ghost slivers, lodgingthere in your joints? Eventhis silence has a hiss to it.Even the air presses down, soft,a pillow on your mouth.Asphyxiation happens slowly,breath by breath, when youare alone. Who cares? Thisis not about connection.You are not elastic. You willtake in each swallow of air,day by day. You will move,spider-limbed, exoskeleton imaginedin bands. You could make a cageto keep your wrists, your fingers,to hold your neck a column, to makea statue to hold your lungs. You shouldmake something gold, soft, curved clawsto keep you rigid, so you stand,naked, and see in the mirroryour form, banded in gold. Special.Caged. Each rib-breath touchingrib-gold, rib-bars, your breastsinsignificant, your arthropod bodyheld. Special. The plea in eachtremulous breath. To live. Each breath.To live some more, perfect. Gilded.
The WaitAnd you wait again, and finddust a sheen on every angle. Andyou think of spice and earth andEastern sun, and how he waits,an imprint on the land. And you waitfor Meucci’s wire to come aliveand his voice to make the air vibrate,to touch your thin-skimmed drum and turnto words in your brain. And you waitfor his fingers and his lips, dust-sheened,to touch your cheek. And you waitin winter wind, and he in winter sun,until your flights converge, and fleshmeets flesh and waiting is out-waited.