Breathe in, but shallowly,
the dust of ages,
bearing mummied freight of years,
glints in light's lone shaft.
what may be down here,
what you left down here.
When the knife is buried,
implicit is its unlooked-for exhumation;
when you bury something,
its release becomes a prophecy,
so don't breathe,
till the dots swim in your head,
and vision tunnels through the rock,
and you wake up from
the latest fugue,
the city inundated with flowers
the breezes of a spring
you never saw coming.
were your urgent feet taking you
on this brand new day?