18 April 2009

p.a.d. day three


The problem with breathing
is that I’m conscious of it now,
the contracting diaphragm,
the exchange of gases.

I wake from a sunshine waft of a dream,
daisies in my hair blown away
by the haunting roar of my breath
as lungs fill and empty.

…this poem led to a 2nd poem….

Yellow Swing

How I still love the yellow swing
at the bottom of a grassy backyard hill
and the way my pumping legs pushed my body
higher, higher, higher.

I keep wanting to jump,
to demand my novel or a newspaper,
despite this choking feeling
I lost something in the clouds.

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