Lunging Moment

Here is a kind of air

hovers over the heart
the kind you can’t breathe, or
feel the cold wind through soft

it weighs on the heart deeper;
shiver at that emptiness resound


Perhaps it takes
the form of a bubble,
gently disturbing systematic and
rhythmic blood pulses,

not blunt,
charming —but
like real air, there are no boundaries

An impulse to gasp
rolls through the heart
like a train that keeps going

on tracks, rather than on time;
a lunging


irascible against time

Sometimes I think I know
what the whole love is
or that through this emptiness
or lack of space
I can understand
things clearly,
the invariable things
that blunder through fixed days.

This kind of air, a
plunging moment in green respite.

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