In the picture we were leaning into each other
your weight on my shoulder, Moroccan silver frame with two chambers
a house of hallways, the permutations of face.
Rumi’s moving.

Slow to breathe, the mechanical adjustment of flesh sloping south
stretch out your limbs all the way. Your breath
expanding in spite of restraints.
I was killed in your pouring eyes.

Never managed an ascent like this
the weight of slackers hung heavy around my feet
freedom feels good after restraints
your breath a fine lift.
Resist the temptation to talk junk.

J-walking under a blanket my skin moving
the roof of your head transparent I look down through your mouth
and see the machinery has quieted down. The oil can has returned
to the shelf where it belongs.

In the book of silences pray for breath. The ascents will still apply —
I can’t manage more than a few groans and giggles anyway —
horizontal movement assured now.
I am told I am breathing fine but
that is not always about air.