I’ve been aghast these many months
the months bunch up,
like a patient upon a table
anesthetized,
on half-burned grass,
aghast again, at August’s end
So many months with broken breath,
now snot rags, ragweed,
wheezing; the peeved grass,
having lost what was naïve
also clotted in a sneeze
but think, the patient, I, anesthetized,
might salvage breath for what’s ahead
the ghast extending out in time
to breathe, to lay a hand upon a head
to pay respect to a flattened bird
the breath to bike around its head
the rag we hold, so dear, to make it
last, to count no matter what