Oftentimes, the breathing
is not easy breath
conscious of
the in, out      in, out.

When air must clamber
up the rough of the throat
as if a tired ghost
a worn conscience.

For breath, for some,
is heavy—laden with
the impossibility
of impossibility.

With more and too much,
which, often misunderstood,
is too little—a slow
starvation, acrid churning

of emptiness
in the lungs. A sense of
air’s capacity, moving now,
to cease movement and fall

down the rungs, back
irrevocably to that place
that gave it up, away,
so hopeful

it would be forever
newborn.

And some
must dandle themselves
to keep from going still.

To force the breath
back up and out. Out as if
the diseased life were really
a beacon of purity.