The Breath.


Easily in and out you breathe, with lungs
unsullied by cigarette smoke, siesta nap
a lazy Sunday on afternoon when flowers
wilt and sky is recklessly nude

Breathtaking, the silence, if you should
stop; I would fall down a chasm of pale
rainbows, stillborn moons, rusty stars
where words of love are unheard of.

Inhale and exhale my dear, snore too if
you must, but don’t leave me alone in
city parks where old men sit spit and tell
passersby how old they are.