You breathe
the air
that we all share.
You inhale frantic doctors,
juvenile drug-pushers, dogs on leashes,
starving birds, newborn with new
names, the elderly who’re alone
in broken homes—connected
to all through light and heat
from a star who’s father to billions
of lives and miles, a circle
with no center.

You exhale. Your breath rides
the light and heat, feeds the icy
trees, adds to infinite motion.

You see through the wave
on which all things oscillate,
a continuum of supposedly singular
lives: one left, one down; one right,
none wrong; back to back, end to end.

You brush against support columns,
erode what others build, purify corrosion.

You walk on earth. The beach stretches
through the ocean to whales, seaweed,
starfish, other countries’ languages,
and me. Through my love for you
the wave continues:
the scratchy sound of my pen on your paper,
your lips, my mortality, our dreams,
and the reality that we insist is real.

We stoke the furnace, share
sweat in the shadows of our race
to old age. Then our essence billows
into space, creates new stars
which light and heat planets
whose distance stretches
past the mind, home,
and possessions you call your own.