at the edge of the river

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.