Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

As if a twig between— like shattered air—
my fingers, dry and snapped— like something rare—
the body of the morning woke my breath

while angels, in their fired mosquitoes' buzz,
would bleed-sing me their glory— there I was:
for puja, yawn— and groan for shibboleth.

But in that shattered air I recognized
a grounds for Love I'd only theorized
as moral quest or exercise in ethics:

what I breathe I have to give away
for you to breathe— and to prepare the way
for love you breathe to me to stay my death.

reminds me of something I read years ago, the source escapes me now...

" you only get to keep what you give away."

The living breath is until it isn't.

And poetry?

~A