For Air
By Ed Roberson
There is a place in me for air as part
of me of a piece with how I live.
And I am in it making sense like a cart
we are each other’s horse before. given.
loaded with flowers. both
our breaths a fragrance of sound wave and beat.
word of the heart. The music goes
on to explain it is moved by the feet
taking the place apart into other places to see.
where is the surface the air impresses upon
what forms bounce into shape and form
patterns of doing. the way they do that they be.
themselves ourselves scattered across the drumhead
shod with a vibration of the unsaid.
geometries of air shod with a vibration
of the unsaid dance out their ordered sentences
to freedom the felt articulated into action
a balletic leap that seeing trails resemblances
of not knowing to knowing of silence
to song of being bound to flight.
A place in the air achieved space—
not even aware the speaking might
be music. Or that the place of air in us
might be singing the fragrance of the flowers
already worded in stone the airy cupolas
of temples lifted off into the idea of showers
of bubbled light and the poem as the champagne
of what the body has bottled in its strain.
