‹br›eath

I often wonder
if poets pause
at the end
of every line
to catch their

(hey, I just climbed 32 flights of stairs, okay?)

breath

for lung capacity is finite
and poetry endless
and we’d die if we didn’t
breathe
every now and then

but sometimes waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls distract you long enough that you just happen to forget that you are not any more immune to death

than anyone else