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this writing appears in the Mark Fleury 2010 poetry book In Your Heart, the Apostrophe’s Teardrops of God now available for only 1000

enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the 6" x 9" 2015 ISBN# paperback collection book Seeing Strangers			Enjoy this compilation book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book (of THREE books!) as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book Seeing Strangers

Hello (Breath’s Lament)

Mark Fleury

Currenting, said a boy
Last-named Mumbleweed,
From my aching archway
That frames this day,
Is my system of pipelined
Desert winds.

That wound me up, and I’m what litters
The alley: wind tunnels as long
As the depths of your eyes
Can reach me.

The final piece of the puzzle
Slid in easily,

According to the back of
My sight that touches
That voice you know yourself
By from touching light
In the hallway leading to me.

And I’m the enemy
Of liquid dark full of light
That doesn’t complete us.

Yet we can’t catch the end
Of the labyrinth here, down
The corridor wall of escape
From void.

Filled up with scarlet, late fall
Anxiety, sky took me up into
The ceiling of a painting
Completed by the sun beam
That comes through the top
Of what got lost, below the threshold
Of throat-tunneled speech.

That’s according to where my sight-
Shafts are full circle around
One square window, blue as

Any breeze. Scared of falling down
Halls becoming tunnels becoming
Shafts, then a head to reach
The top of, I became a place
For the wind to contain. At the entrance
Of a square’s cubed angle,
You and me became known as in
Each other’s middle names;
You who were once form for wind
To fill. We hold each other. In now.
This poem has the ends
Of our edges, no hiding from it. The tide.

The pull, it’s into yourself. And as threadbare
As the sun is without leaving itself,

I couldn’t rely on glinted leaves
To save me from a west-faced window,
Pouring shine in my eyes.
That’s where I differ from form.

In the first name of the Mother,
The Daughter, and the Holy Spirit,
I thought I’d venture, if not for love,
Then for poetry, into time (cube)
And space (orb)É

That I can’t is my lament.

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