There has been no end to my exhale,
flowering emptiness fills me infinitely.
Subsurface tides of me rush recede and on my surfaces
waters winds in beautiful tandem leap form
With in-breath I am pretending at being born,
with out-breath I am pretending at dying.
(I know — the I of me
was never born and shall never die)
When I am silent to the very bone,
beyond myself, my edges blurring and free,
what choruses now, what string, what flute notes drum
who is it who sings to and through me?
Have I known you? Why this gift?
Your fiery breath exhales into me.
When life and love breathed exactly into this world,
and I became here, were you beside me then?
What faces were my face
before I was born?