• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 11

Earth, breathe

I do know the sound of air
pokes and stares in a quirk curve
curtains fly and sand-like nylons grin beside birds
tot stones grace my eye with all glee and grit
and air douses the censure

unlike wallflowers, gales don't careen/tip/sway
air is not drunk, has no trait of some shrinking violet

and when the end creeps over the horizon, it struts
on mountains, like a little one feels its new toes,
it shuffles, lingers long
long enough to be listless,
takes all in - a plethora of earth's hue and cry

then, it

we call it "fresh air"