Really Breathing
by Robert Wynne


- after & for Tim Seibles


You are breathing
a thousand miles away

and I hear the sweet rip
of air torn from the world
which begins at your full lips

and quivers in anticipation
of the word

you’re about to speak.
I don’t know what word it is
and it doesn’t matter, only

the hush of the bookstore, the way
even Socrates has given up talking

on his dusty shelf, ants blaze low
through the door, pigeons forgive
glass and light balloons the ceiling

until every audience member floats
2 inches off the floor. No sole

remains dark. The ants flail
their tiny legs as they float
wondering if this is how dreams taste

or just the color of breath
about to become.






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