By Allan Peterson
We are dead wrong thinking soul a deep breath,
a figure with wings
words may sail into or out of like a martin house.
And schizoid to think
the important part of such substance as us
flies up to the vast unanswerable,
as if a smoky nothing escaping captivity
while the bones stay here to beg flowers.
That would be like being loved only
for the aroma of our hair while a heart paces
back and forth in the waiting room,
boots on one minute, bare feet the next,
a single face at a mirror taking a deep breath,
humming the cows home, their lips moving
like they knew the words.