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Wanda Phipps / Poem

a fool for the breathing

Inspired by Bernadette Mayer's book: Proper Name
and a line from "moon and sand" a poem by Merry Fortune


Dying is not an option. Lucky could be the call. Relish the daylight. Worship the
moonrise. Praise the snowflake. Days measure meaning as in perceptual time/abstract
space. Dream hours relate. Fell a dream/tree. Dangerous is an option. Moonrise could
be the call to action. Measure dying as incremental life. Delicate seconds fall off like dead
skin. Options multiply. A phone rings. A door opens. The meaning relates to luck, fate.
The fall of a destiny beam corrects all. Hours are not the relished balcony of spirit. In
increments the space follows dark eyes and faltering will.

Your voice then again is the meaning of time. Multiply myopia to include microscopic
analysis. Observe the self in balanced equilibrium. Watch the sounds. Taste the breath,


Trying is the luck to begin with. Fall into your voice and then remember. Praise the
multiplicity of meaning. Time again as the sound taste. Concentrate on the fibers of your
shirt, texture and color. Breath and the timing of breathing in and then. Relish a certain
sound: heartbeat, exhalation, giggle. My magic is a substance again. Like honey, like a
sure fog, like rare intentions focused. Options aplenty. Hands in your pocket—I'm not
looking for your money. The moon tonight is a spell of sound sleeping or dream
sounding. You said it was cold, she was welcoming, you came inside. It was fate, luck, a
stroke of space commingling. Then it was wrong. But how? That's another answer.

Dark phone, cold room, music also. Watch muscles release. Tension relates to an as yet
unknown blue wave. Melancholy as a constant rumble. "My man" coming and action
slows in microscopic increments. Air falls. Thought ring opening as in the fancies of an
eighteenth century hollow voiced nymph. He is feline and allusive. I am a mercurial
Diana, heavier huntress then comforting midwife, oft times ethereal muse. His cat cleaves
to my protective lioness. Then there is the bear who needs my patience, gives me his gruff
crab dance. To him I am serpentine and dangerous, but useful.



Your eyes say this time is honored. Struggle to make it perfect. I am somehow larger
than I am. Picture a sure beginning, one more time. Lucky smile. This hand says I am
ready. Voice tremolo, shiver/shimmer. Keep this. Vibratory scream. A prayer on my
knees to desire awakening. A sure one. Chest: heavy, breathing difficult, tight. A weight
visits me—lizard on my chest. Rest for a while in a dark second, nothing moves. Move for
a while in silence. Straddle the options. That's a choice. Decode my reference. Decipher
my own perilous dance. Falling is a secret longing.

Tasting a cool pause you keep a strained balance. This is self-preservation. Am I really
such an angel? Are you such an evil one? Keep me still moving. Teach me true. Seek the
strengthening will. Beaming into the room, bright happening on top of a faltering word.
Slip none too softly through. Honey seep. Burdens deep.


Watch a shapely flask of sake. Appeal to my sense of anarchy. Concentrate on the
possibilities. Chaos is abundance or some precious acceptance of irony. Twist of mate or
all things at once. Simultaneity an angelic kiss. A not so stubborn bull brushing his head
against my belly.

I'm pocketing anticipation with your hand grazing the heater, foot tapping the wall.
Uneven sizing keeps edges frayed. Let's not forget the details. A body of work descends
from the ceiling, intact, whole, a gift—beyond grace—arms full.