Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

My Breath

My breath
Seems to come slower these days
As if it felt unneeded or, perhaps,
Unwanted. Like awakening at night
By the moment of day that stuck

Feeling like a burr between toes.
When I want a pink sky to swallow
Me like the silos and red barns and
Holsteins’ hooves digging browned

Grass. Soon it will be green again,
I want to promise, without any clue
Or evidence. Call the rolling hills
Hope, guess the manure will feed

Back to the soil what burns olfactor
Now. I want to promise like a child
Needs, that the lines will end on
time. The stillness, a quiet the same

Child gawks looking past his panes
At the scene of a life yet to become.
Now it’s become. I can almost taste
The grill marks on marinated flesh.

9 Responses to “My Breath”

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