The Air




The air will pull itself together, inhaling is a glory
The narrowed passage between amazement and apnea
Softened by the desire to do well
The will to, to myself, do well
On this raft without veil
Only the current acts, lateral, deep
Breathing out in the back-and-forth dense efforts to extricate myself
Half open each of the alveolus of anachronism
Breathing through the lace of yore
The lungs retain the traces of the old rickety beds
The oxygen is around my neck like a lover
I dive, eyes almost closed
Into the resources of my sedimentary deposits
Still untouched by the collapses 



May 2015