1998

Boy
watching a bubble fall,
rise,
fall.

Breathing with it,
leaning into it.

Lost in a fall,
lost, then caught in a rise.

Down,
up

Air out,
air in.

Breathe out,
breathe in.

Soap bubble, caught on breath,
a life caught
in movie frames
scattered across
the bubble’s curve.

That other boy, doppelgänger,
31 years preparing,

lean armed
sepia toned, fish pole on his shoulder,
nervous and earnest,
those black frames
cusping those gentle eyes,
fading now, into the distance.

Now, you
earnest young professor, you old black and white,
you leaver,
your pipe in teeth.

Mary.
Oh, Mary.
She is in Africa,
She is in Malaysia.
She is looking for your breath.

Your children. Those girls.
That boy.

Sawdust.

Leaves, woods.

Soap bubbles that fall.

Needham, Eastham,
Misty on the beach.

It sounded like air.
It sounded like bubbles breaking.

Breathe out
breathe in

Breathe in,
breath out.

Chest fall.

Chest fall.

Chest fall.

I do not know where to begin.
All those breaking pictures,
lost on broken bubbles.

Kiss me again.

Why won’t you breathe into me again?