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“Breathing” by James Tate 🇺🇸 (8 Dec 1943 – 8 Jul 2015)
I hear something coming,
something like a motorcycle,
something horrible with pistons awry,
with camshafts about to fill the air
with redhot razor-y shrapnel.
At the window, I see nothing.
Correction: I see two girls
​
playing tennis, they have no
voices, only the muted thump
of the ball kissing the racket,
the sound of a snowball
hitting a snowman, the sound
​
of a snowman’s head rolling
into a river, a snowman with
an alarmclock for a heart
deep inside him. Listen:
someone is breathing.
​
Someone has a problem
breathing. Someone is blowing
smoke through a straw.
Someone has stopped breathing.
Amazing. Someone broke
his wrist this morning,
broke it into powder.
He did it intentionally.
He had an accident
​
while breathing.
He was exhaling
when his wrist broke.
Actually
​
it’s a woman breathing.
She’s not even thinking
about it. She’s thinking
about something else.