Air as Metaphor

Ever since I broke my brain somehow

Some

Years ago,

I have not stopped from worshiping;

I sunk a knife into my chest and peeled

against yellow fat until I saw the muscle twitch,

Recoil from the naked air.

I touch statues sometimes alone in the naked air.

I cannot stand the feel of empty air against my skin and

Think that it is all

out-sides myself, where I occur,

but know it touches others, too.

The closest I have touched someone

Was breathing when she laughed. I

would have worshiped people then, if she had gave me leave.

I must touch the statues, come close, to eliminate

the structure of the silence of the air.