The art of tracking breaths

before a year’s clock strikes:

boxed inhales and exhales, even oxygenation, 

in one—

fresh out of studies, a future grows hips

two—

early twenties, a crisp December sunrise

three—

a kindling candle, a new job in Manhattan 

four—

a nest at a turning corner, retrospect, almost

recycled hiccups, cough,

halt, hold, 

out one—

double years in stagnation

two—

yellow wallpaper edges fraying

three—

an expired welcome, a chilled wick

four—

a life in quarters, changeless. 

 

This art, practiced in a coat closet, 

vintage furs, memories in leather,

study from inherited time, 

embroidered wheezing from an origin world 

where we can handle this tapestry unmasked, 

unafraid 

of two years lost, 

disposed of with our gloves, 

and twenty-five turns

when twenty-three was the last

innovation that was ours. 

 

This art, embalmed, 

with what we remember of our years: 

an early twenty, December sunrise, 

a bedroom-bound Manhattan job, 

a smoking wick, gust from a turning corner, 

tape to fraying wallpaper, 

a new calendar to cover the scratches.