Paper Bag Lungs

Opening my lips and puffing my mouth
I lay on the grass with my spirits as that of a discarded empty glove
A dense, heavy, blue-glowing ocean floats above,
Supporting the weight of condors
That swim its churning currents.
All I get is a thin stream of it,
A finger’s width of the rope that ties me to life
As I labour like a stevedore to keep the connection.

Water wouldn’t be so circumspect;
Water would crash in like a drunken sailor,
But, Air is prissy and genteel,
Teasing me with its nearness and pervading immensity.
The vast, circumambient atmosphere
Allows me but ninety cubic centimeters
Of its billions of gallons and miles of sky.
I inhale it anyway,

Knowing that it will hurt

In the weary ends of my crumpled paper bag lungs.