Tides of Air
Where is emptiness? What is nothing?
Where can I go and find not a thing?
Air is not nothing. Gas-oceans press on my head.
I cannot orbit. I ground-walk: held by pressures around.
Inside each person, heart-beats lock time.
There is still time to stare (hands in pockets).
Galaxies hang from the dome of night…
moving away
and away.
I watch,
while my breath exchanges
other breaths, under tides of air - air as old as the pages of sky.
Nothing
is ever nothing, or so it seems,
today.
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