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Danley Romero
That Kind of Breath
that happens when I’m opening
my arms, then closing
myself around you, feeling
like an accordion.
The breathing is a way
to sing; it’s a rushing up,
it’s a pressing out,
like I’m full of helium—
head a dizzied melody—like,
I could float away now,
except my feet today
are solid things, planted,
firmly, right where I left them.
A willow shakes in a storm as if
in a summer breeze. And vice
versa.
I can shift my weight
from side to side. You
can do this, too,
and we can do it together,
call it dancing.
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