In and Out

When breathing suddenly resides

between reaching and sighing,

there seems to exist a shortage of sorts

and not merely of oxygen molecules around me.

But why is it

that when there’s shortage-

a kind of missage-

that weight is created?

How can an absence turn into a heavy presence?

Perhaps the clenching circumstance is this:

that something’s come from inside my chest

and is sitting on top of it now,

waiting, simply this.

Surely, the last thing that will make it move is air,

though all I long for is this.

So I drink it in, gulpingly,

and lift my chest and both the shoulders

and rely merely now on reflex

to find or create, whichever it may be,

exuberant abundance

where currently only shortage grips.