The Composition of Our Atmospheres ========================== In beds without arms, the sun not yet risen- there is no cure. Shall you stare at the ceiling counting imagined stars, falling into this atmosphere, between you and the world, flaming tails crashing into your vast sea? And could you give it to me, this empty ball you live inside, let me throw it to pigeons, sent scattered by all that space landing in their midst? Or could I throw it to the leaves that fall so softly, and crisp under your perfect shoes; sending them in their spirals as they are sometimes inclined? I would hold it for you, a while, if it was not so much yours, release you for a few moments: lose your eyes, trust every cell to shiver like you were so cold without this heavy blanket, let you scatter pigeons or leaves with the force of your body, alone. Your body, alone: dreaming spaces between us, so stupidly thick: As if our atmospheres were not made of the same oxygen, inhaled so deeply at the sound of music soaring through our particular form of air; or words perfectly capturing its composition. As if our emptiness was not a house we had both been trapped in as we sealed over doorways, taping shut all but one tiny window which glows so rarely, bright as hope on the sunniest days of our isolation. What storm were we preparing for, if not this one? -e. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
