To Be Held: A Poem

A shape then,

the carrier;

an interior

structure of 

support:

ribs holding

our lungs

holding

oxygen;

like bowls holding

sound holding

resonance...

it is no cage at all.

Exhale.

The masses;

of which this 

is a part -

its' tightening and

winding, its tentacular 

mess... must snap to 

breathe; as a dragon

breathes fire - the 

matchstick friction.

(a mallet releases timbre,

the hammer that starts it all,

the color-producing tentacle

in a moment of fear or)   

We poisoned ourselves

for years on waste and

smoke; becoming

busted, broken,

babbling,

only to

inhale, only

to breathe.

All of it, 

a gasping for air

with nowhere 

to reach;

swimming without 

knowing the feel of

water. 

Yet, found atop strange reservoirs,

we float. We float

chock full of stardust, ether, 

your words and mine, hair 

soft seaweed; limbs smooth brine. 

Unleashed