September 28, 2007


let it be written, what is written,
as well as what it is
written on

unmodulated breath
says nothing.
modulation makes it mean nothing:
a beautycraft that gardens
our permanent delusions.

   when we don't have to talk
   breath comes freely.
   a walk, or sit in woods,
   lungs in synch with being alone,
   a universe everything stars in stares.

   who ever is
   in their own breath
   and knows it
   to remember?

a certain measure out of our minds we are
but it's a breath's small instance that is each its life,
from birth a smacked gasp
to an bamboo whack awakening
for instance

endless beginnings,
breath taken from our own flesh and blood, which is
what but air pulsating at a wave solid to sense
the earth breeze we erupt from
somewhere formless as now
being in the body of breath we cry out of     what is

—Scott Watson

Posted by dwaber at September 28, 2007 12:15 PM