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.

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