Loose --

Somewhere between the chest and the throat,
the passage of breath surrenders
to an almost ticklish rendering of too much of today.

My fingers heal the invisible lines that divide a soul,
the ying and the yang come alive in a doorbell,
a pot of soup steams its way through the nose --
the onion, parsley, salt, pepper -- all scooped up
in half a second of oxygen.

Daily, the clothes shift their weight on this body,
a few nails, the half - moons of uncut-ness .

Somewhere down, a road beckons. The same one you take.
Its the everyday course,
familiarity dissolving in a mound of the unexplored.

Is there a possibility to still be surprised?
And those mornings?

I demand a few stars whose lights drift me off to myself.