S E V E N
The breath of laughter
enthuses not only life but also
the leaving of life and the weave
woven through both: The thread love.
The love of my life.
A young lady. An administrator
at the party school. Two years a friend,
then chance turned a chance talk
to talk of music. Rock and roll.
And consequently to death.
Love of Who music
led hundreds of Who fans at a concert
to rush to the music – a rush
trampling eleven Who fans.
“I heard about a tee shirt,”
the love of my life said, grinning.
My life’s love quoted: “I’d walk
all over you to see the Who.”
She giggled, laughed quietly,
then laughed louder and slapped her leg.
What life! A perfectly vital
appreciation of death!
A perfectly weird appreciation
of weird death that took
away my heart as long laughter
takes breath. This laughing woman
took me, breathless, and breathed on me.
Breathless herself, she lay back
to my own breathing. Life, laughter, love.
A third sense, then, this love.
Time. Humor. Love. Each something,
somehow, somewhere. Time. Humor. Love.
A momentary touch. A smile.
The moment and touch lengthen.
Love, then. A flux of the three.
Time, then. Flexible breath! Laughter.
Flexible breath, indeed,
bent over me, mine, then another.
I breath, I walk. She, breathing, walked.
All over. Me. We both saw.
I suppose you could say we both came
and we both conquered, too.
But then we both left, too.
I, for work, she, for a mechanic
who bought her a house off-campus.
A repeating thing, this love,
like time and humor.
Time repeating me. Time, repeating jokes:
“I guess that mechanic
really knew how to use his tools . . .” Breath!
Time. Humor. Love. I sat back
with these three. And thinking. And breath.
And expression. And, gradually,
I realized I sat
not alone! My self,
in the middle of time, humor and love
moved in the middle
of these repeating things, itself a thing
repeated. My self! Not a sense,
but something, somehow, somewhere.