Where the Sky Opens. Laurie Klein

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      A dirt-brown bird with fidgets cracks its joke,

      like a cocklebur. Eyeing the heights,

      she ponders a dozen ways to leave,

      cradles a she-cone, each small wing

      hopeful as any waving hand.

      Next Breath, Best Breath

      For starters, don’t call it a cage,

      corralling the breath. Savvy fingertips

      mutely Braille two dozen ribs,

      each commandeering its own space

      24–7, salaaming and shifting,

      then rising. Selah-h-h-h . . .

      Next, re-envision those lungs as an inner atlas:

      one hundred routes

      funneling

      into branch lines,

      cloverleafs,

      cul de sacs.

      Wild as papyrus, they might be

      a psalter. A Rorschach. A centerfold.

      Or call them dual panniers

      flanking a breastbone,

      an albino koi kissing a mirror,

      all lips and flared silk.

      Now, boneless as a cat at rest,

      inhabit that next inhale, discerning

      how spacious a backbone can be,

      freeing shoulders to roll, the head to loll

      and lift, floating into place: the body

      aligned, alight, a home for the holy.

      Blue as Devotion

      Some love this world like a secret,

      a promise, a sacred tease:

      500 shades of blue—sea glass or sky,

      sapphire, jade, night. Cool hues

      play the rogue, retreat from our squint

      while come-hithering, luminous

      as the quiet splice of shadows and twilight,

      fickle as evening tide’s invocation

      and benediction.

      How many ways can one soul taste

      what perfumes the mind,

      be it nutmeg, narcissus, rain?

      Scent, you are memory’s journey mate.

      Time frays, like next week’s vapor trail,

      the past unspools, and earth lovers

      pause, gazing upward.

      Jealous

      Morning, with your pillowed hands

      twisting over the bed, do you envy

      human desire, its midnight hinge,

      covet our slack-jawed alpha waves

      morphing to REM and then

      a prance of neurons, an in-burst

      of the invisible? All those covert

      sleep spindles slowing the heart,

      cooling the body—yes, we are

      lapped ‘round with rest: one delta

      astride a deepening river, one dream

      richer than silt.

      Poor Great Ante Meridiem!

      Another graveyard shift, the looping,

      half-world commute—no wonder

      you snap the shade on its roller,

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