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                                                              I find
                                              you find your bones
                                on the outbreath

                                              when the lift
                and possible float are relinquished
                                              and the spine can straighten
                                                              and resume its work


                                you can let open the windows
                                              – let all the spirits escape –
                                                              and cast eye ear and notice
                over the rooftops with waving trees under the grey sky between bird-flit
                                                              before and
                                                              during the
                                                              next breath





being wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
birds wormhole: the en-gentled / end of a wan / writing retreat
breathing & C wormhole: in the middle of silence and heat:
grey wormhole: the declensions of constant possibility throughout times
openness & windows wormhole: 1963
rooftops wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
sky wormhole: ‘“ruddy crows!” / said my Dad …’
trees wormhole: a splash of fresh water
wind wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness