- after & for Tim Seibles
You are breathing
a thousand miles away
and I hear the sweet rip
of air torn from the world
which begins at your full lips
and quivers in anticipation
of the word
you’re about to speak.
I don’t know what word it is
and it doesn’t matter, only
the hush of the bookstore, the way
even Socrates has given up talking
on his dusty shelf, ants blaze low
through the door, pigeons forgive
glass and light balloons the ceiling
until every audience member floats
2 inches off the floor. No sole
remains dark. The ants flail
their tiny legs as they float
wondering if this is how dreams taste
or just the color of breath
about to become.
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