Cubic Volumes – a poem

Cubic Volumes

His breath is held together by boxes – 
hushed shut stacks of closed lids stream
on conveyor belts of respiration,
cycling secrets as he dreams –
out an in on esophagus traffic,
productively powered by lung-fulls of steam.
A twist in a hinge, a cog unbuckled: 
tumbling boxes break into screams.
Collisions initiate repairs: 
cargo is sorted on the ground – 
discarded and grieved, swept and salvaged.
Safe.  Repacked.  Enclosed.  Sound.
But once in a while, his tongue lifts a lid:
bulbs of color, released on wings –
selected contents loosed, commingled:
these are the opened gifts when he sings.

With every rent check, I write a little poem.  This is one of them.  I call them Landlord Poems, unofficially.  My current landlord is a landlady, and she is accepting of my activities.


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