i detect
with the right ear:
attenuated forces
apart, once, slip together
again,
as in a game,
where the perceived risk
is nothing like
the risk itself.
the real trap
is a tangle that waits in accumulated stuff
the way that we hoard dust-
and rally with plastics, metal, old scraps
we bury them if we must or we run
if we can
into the night, with bags as capes
surfacing weakly as the moon.
blank.

a failing heart, certain death
i realize that this air has become water.
i realize that touch
has become a surrounding tide
i have detected it,
and have worn it as a cape
i have gone into the darkness with it.

i breathe out in plastic and dust.
the art of oxygen exchange is not enough-
i belong to breathing
i belong to roe-red tight-wound curls.
i belong to touch in semi darkness
where you can only know
if the air is breathing you.