Tuesday, 13 January 2009

Asthma poem

The word itself: breath, a, before
and after, a, quick-quick

and in the midst only crush, an
unvocalic compacted clump.

It is anger, asthma--the lungs
clenching like a blooded fist.

But angry with the air? With me?
Or perhaps it doesn't make

that distinction when it assaults
this half-flesh, half-air organ.

No comments: