still point

on these silent isthmi
between
inhalation
and exhalation
i will rest
on dry ground
where,
neither here
nor gone,
i can
wait to be.

extending
rest
between
the
plunging
bellows
filling
falling
filling
falling.

still birdsong fills
this non-life
trilling on;
cars high-hat through
the waiting loop
but
i will tarry on
this grace note,
slow this
intersection
of the blues,
if only i can
think of
you.