Act ii – 04:50
I forget if I am breathing in or out or backwards.
A chorus. A choir. My lungs a duet made of velvet.
I contemplate what it means to be held arrested by your heart.
Beat the pulse, the base, hushed the bass, barely an echo
Barely the time it takes to blink.
I choose water. I choose to be tied by the strings of my old guitar.
I choose the piano on the bed of the sea.
Dragged by the undertow, the poem shrieks at first
then is buried beneath white, then blue, then sky.
I can smell wood. I drown before the air in me drowns.
The pleats inside the chorus trail.