How This Works

The thin dome stretched at the base
Of the lungs pulls fresh air in
And brings lungs breath. They don’t breathe,

The lungs, they bask as they’re stretched.
They get the gift, then they rest.
These things here called ghosts, words, poems,

Are the lungs of all souls—mind,
If you will, holds out the air,
Well out there. Flesh drags it in—

Draws drafts down, gulped gusts of mind,
Down the page, down through the depths,
So the ghosts can bask, then rest.

It floats on. Bits of mind, air,
Gas that fuels these thoughts of this
Or that. The flesh gets to eat,

As well, in its turn. But poems
Hold claim to breath. Poems say so,
Though they say so thanks to flesh.