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It's been said a billion times before today,
but nothing exists but this.
There is a subdimension of this one
where we can hallucinate that
we see why they call this mountain ridge blue
and that the contrails
are Mars fingerpainting
and wondering why it is
that it's taken so many years
for us to question the script of planes
and whether they're really capable
of leaving lines
that look so much like free-falling
when we all know
the curve of the Earth
cannot lend itself so willingly
to that degree of dramaticism:
it'd stop itself before we started to believe
in phenomena
where something that so closely resembles sure death
can evaporate and turn out well.
You know,
you can hold your breath for as long as you want to
but your body will never let you
die that way;
isn't it kind
that anatomy allows us such room for forgetfulness
and mistakes in thinking
that breathing is a privilege
reserved for those who always want to.
