Breathing

Grasping for straws is easier; You can see the straws. “This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,” Presses down upon me At fifteen pounds per square inch, A dense, heavy, blue-glowing ocean, Supporting the weight of condors That swim its churning currents. All I get is a thin stream of it, A finger’s width of the rope that ties me to life As I labor like a stevedore to keep the connection. Water wouldn’t be so circumspect; Water would crash in like a drunken sailor, But air is prissy and genteel, Teasing me with its nearness and pervading immensity. The vast, circumambient atmosphere Allows me but ninety cubic centimeters Of its billions of gallons and miles of sky. I inhale it anyway, Knowing that it will hurt In the weary ends of my crumpled paper bag lungs. July, 1988