So Many Lungs Moving

So Many Lungs Moving

The great grand bliss lets slip the lips

and sees the beginning and again emerges full,

replete, ready for reactions.

Fulness is an element of emptiness

Scaffold of the flux,

train schedule for marbles dropped on the floor.

Hurry hurry to get the words out, get the words out.

Hurry as the air goes out

as the old balloon crimples and pads sadly on the floor.

The unicorns are coming with their tiny heads and horns.

Our little nose blowers.

A blue snow cone.

Electric wires overhead.

Hurry hurry.

Get the words out!

The day is becoming the day.

Get the words out about night.

About the passage below the reins.

The rinse polluting down stream

with its foam lapping up against the rocks.

Something similar was here a thousand years ago,

there in the grass,

seeming to last a long time.

I swallowed seven pins and worried about internal bleeding.

I gave up on ever seeing cranes again.

I began looking everywhere for validation, for resonance,

for the sounds of hands and feet and talking and traffic.

Guest surveyors walked the yard.

Renters strung their laundry from the windows like a tenement or a web.

Absolute power is the water’s or the wind’s or the whistle of words

in so many lungs, moving.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures