AIRDIVE, OR VOLUNTARY FALL INTO A PLACE OF POETRY
When the love of T.S. Eliot
Reminds me of the stillness
And the patterns in a music
That is heard as from afar
And I am haunted by these words he wrote
Dust on a bowl of rose leaves
That should not ever be disturbed
And it seems to me quite clearly now that
Eliot dear is a ghost of air
And my mind a haunted house
And we are inevitably bound together
When I am running, eyes closed
Over a glass bridge that stretches
The great precipice of nothingness
He speaks softly and I know it's true:
This is the death of air
And I find I cannot breathe
As I did before, and the atmosphere
Turns to liquid nitrogen
And in minutes I have turned
Into the dying surgeon
Caught in his lines of poetry
Suspended in mid-air
And my story unended
As long as I am falling
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