Breath in a land so small
that even dancing angels must collide—
a pinprick, a postage stamp,
an image held in the mind so long
it has become an experience.
It must have known birth
and believed in death to be out there.
It is a breath of us.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breath is a breeze renowned
for its narrow imagination.
As the line that divides here from there
grows longer, his one good arm grows in an arc
extending earthward into
a microscopic existence.
Yet he strips our clothes
and steals them (indeed) like a thief.
Breathe in, breathe out. Again.
Breath in, out.