I think that you
appreciate life
in much the same way
as I.

Maybe we didn’t choose
our respective nemeses,
but they chose us
to see the edge.

Do you feel it in your chest?—
the memory of the brink.
Do you feel it in your throat?—
your deliberate survival.
Do you feel it in your heart?—
a compensatory zest.

There’s something fragile about breathing.

There’s something fragile about each
respiration, each circulation, each
revolution about the blazing yellow sun.

Point a B field toward the sky.
Show it to the monsters inside
who pushed us very close,
but we didn’t follow through
with their plans.

We have our own.

And among them are waking,
and breathing, and acknowledging
that these are neither trivial
nor promised.

And I think you know
how heavy and light it all is.

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