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.
On a Two Year Old`s SurgeryI.The waiting time. Thisis the waiting time. Floors walked.Eyes blank.Everything is a constellation.The sky is blanked out by light,but ecosystems grow on flat roofs,echoing the stars we cannot see.Lichen is creeping over,making stone of asphalt, andin moss, there is life.We will not speak of death.The anaesthetic was a soft and sudden thing,a falling, not a going under.You fell in my arms, a heavy thing.And while you sleep, we wait.And we wait, and think of nothing,our minds turned from the men with tools.We think of the ones who cared,who started it all. Of the peaksof windows and steeples and trees.Of how wide and flat is a linoleum floor,and how, while we are at sea,we are anchored still by you.Somewhere near it is snowing.It is snowing at home, buthere are clear skies.An omen. An omen, we chant.We turn everything to good and roll back to bad. The undertow is vicious.Our thoughts move like waves,retracting, catching up new things,tumbling them,
Bone House, II am an ossuary, ban-hus,and on the way, no wonder,no alchemy for my audience,no wŠter wear to bane.There are no changes here.My fingers are spindles,dry knots, something stackedinside and left to curl. My spinea knotted road, metatarsals splayedas dry mountain ridges, asleading grounds for pilgrims,flint-hearts who won't pray for peace,but only for increase and more time.They will carve out the relics I holdin slow, slow chips, and in doingeffect a slow Anschlu▀ of my mind.When they're gone my walls will weaken.Only then. And on the way, a wonderwhile bone becomes water,and an eorscrŠf I will be.