at the edge of the river I felt were i to dive into this river and hold my breath, the air in my lungs must return were I to refuse to let the air reunite and continue to flow , death always yields the breath.
my mother has a lung, just as pale as mine, as pale as all lungs that breathe the pallored air. and the bird it’s lungs expire just as well.
was I really a man or just a pulminary sac on the edge of this river, as if the air made our lungs so it could soak into blood- ed types like me and my dog. i felt that moment the inverted lung. i became afraid to breathe, afraid to offend the wind . placing my hand on my chest, the other cupping the air, i felt lungs was too young to use for it all.