The Airway

The airway   spilts—
Motioning the
Of jet-engine lungs.

It’s the atmosphere,
We breathe,
And each stitch,
And each seam,
That keeps the
But altitude feels
When descending,
Lungs dissenting,
And air falling so fast
You can’t breathe.

It’s, so often,
The vessel,
Not the heart,
That holds each part;
Oxygenation, then,
Altogether in sync,
Until the bodies at brink
Of    splitting—
Starting from the inside,
Then out,
Like soulful mutiny,
When it seems we’ve all
Flown too close to the sun.

This end is all things,
And all things this end:
Falling, tearing, grasping;
Dancing that sideways spiral
From a half-opened cock-pit,
Burdened by breathing
Of flame ridden lungs,
And the aching motion
Of ceiling, floor,
Ceiling, floor,
Until the Earth is near,
And in one magnificent
Flame the breathing stops,
And there is

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