The Eighteenth Gasp of Air
November in mountains. Where
one month of twelve a pluck
of bodies lie up, reading their
errata in microforms flicking.
The feet of their smoked tobacco
and the boys who heard, if not
listened, to their ghastliness.
The Great Mountains of Breathing,
like its book, little footnotes
of people whose gut stretch
past the womb, eaten by jaws
small as a plantain nub,
that bore a sodomite sitting
on his stench he confused for
his half-doorknob breast
or the nude scarecrow showering,
or was it yowling—eighteen years
old, bloated but mewling, only
for me that my eyes may roll back
as I sit on a cushion he laid in
that I could lie between, waiting.