Suspiration

Ramble, circumambulators,
do as your internalizations 
mechanize, diphtherial lungs 
and all the muck the pipes
can't bear, bring the air
down anyway, it's the 
elevator shafting, the 
blue light drafting, con
catenated between durable
unbearable fingers and re
doing the feeling of passivity
that comes with voice: to 
say is to delay a machine 
action that gives physical
reality something to consciousness
about, a cravatted piled up broken
tree, cavorting stationary in the
eye's beholder, a bolder observer
than a subject line can contain,
neither quatrained nor instrumented
for solipsism's canary, dead, like
mine eyes, underground with 
tavern sinuses, not a breath in
since before the first drink.