But We Are All the Scattered Matter of Dead Stars, My Dear

This is a biography of your lungs
& their wet battle against oxygen

how they root through your chest like vines among
the hackberry. Built of birds nests, thin

tangles of copper wiring: better off
in your skete, better before Aristotle

said man is a political animal.
Better built from burnt ashes of

titans who ate Dionysius. And yes,
of course: the oceans wait to fill your lungs

with eels. Statistically you & I are the person.
And my lungs [baleening/sluicing] the air.

Orpheus said the wind won’t blow all day
& storms eventually tire of their rage,

which reminded me of that band Angel Hair
who sang “No one has the clap forever.”

-Mathias Svalina