25
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.