What Birds Plunge Through is not Intimate Space

Under daylight. Under nightlight. Blinking like clicking. Breathing like leaving. Heaving in sky. Back upon grass, ribbon rings. Visible breath.
My body, the smokestack. The twinkling horizon. The torchlight of sleeping.

Unlocking the fields as clouds unlock rain. Watching the moment turn tree into empty house.
Turn flesh into cold steel. Civilization, the factory that taks apart the breathing and the free.
THe reinterpretation that I live in. Knowing that my breath can't warm the world. And wind through thin branches. Wind into watery eyes.

Watching the cubicle life, the warring life. Grey and green forest combine to make paper spent that makes life spent. The fabrication of every moment, of every day.
From square room to square heart.
the air is displace by objects and we breathe what we reject.
A life spent gasping. A life spent grasping.