A POEM ON PAPER
let it be written, what is written,
as well as what it is
written on
unmodulated breath
says nothing.
modulation makes it mean nothing:
a beautycraft that gardens
our permanent delusions.
when we don't have to talk
breath comes freely.
a walk, or sit in woods,
lungs in synch with being alone,
a universe everything stars in stares.
who ever is
in their own breath
and knows it
to remember?
a certain measure out of our minds we are
but it's a breath's small instance that is each its life,
from birth a smacked gasp
to an bamboo whack awakening
for instance
endless beginnings,
breath taken from our own flesh and blood, which is
what but air pulsating at a wave solid to sense
the earth breeze we erupt from
somewhere formless as now
being in the body of breath we cry out of what is
—Scott Watson