Breath will see silverware age and bend and

rust set out on napkins, will have worn-through

shoes and threads loose in pockets.

Breath will waterproof the basement after

the first flood, will buy settler blankets and

heavier coats after the first foot of snow.

Breath will dry the dream of the dropped body,

dead, dry, spry pears on the boughs that

shrivel around their worms.

Breath will crop, and fress on bone, and wilt,

limp after frost has lamped the floor in white.

And breath will know by your hands,

and demise will be called;

you ate the lure and were

shricked on the barbed hook,

and you used your hands to pull the

fisher down for a look at him.

The end of breath is calm,

and does like one to look.

[I suppose, it's time I posted a poem.  This is from an older collection, and is a few days freshly rejected from The Listening Eye, out of Burton, Ohio (a publication at Kent State).  The response was very detailed, however, and stated that they were all over the board with this one.  In the end, it was decided against.  I wasn't entirely sure it fit in any of our sections here for posts, however this seemed the closest match.]

-Ray