The Mind Is A Body Breathing In

The mind is a body breathing in unconsciously
and consciously breathing out, an imperceptible
pause between the operations, coming near to full
and just as near to empty, always something

left behind or a space to fill, dying a little
and being born again, the warm exhalation
like gently beating wings passing from a cloud,
cooler, fine-grained wind entering like a ghost:

an interchange between the starry skies above
and the moral law within, words assembling
as if they might be things in-and-of-themselves,

while a ceiling fan revolves above two sweating
naked figures in a cheap hotel, and entwined zephyrs
blow Botticelli’s Venus across a choppy sea.