On the border of the out-breath and the in,
is a wave where life is freed from seeming so,
body and external traits are gone,
and our essential natures liberally flow.
There are no vessels there to gather vacuums,
and the sign for presence is different, the account’s
not personal, not nominal, only the rhythm,
burning like the stars, is incandescent.
On the border of the out-breath and the in,
is a wave where life is audible, like music, but not seen,
and it is there that poetry takes its lines,
and there we posthumously atone for sin.
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