O Breath

Beneath that loved   and celebrated breast, silent, bored really   blindly veined, grieves, maybe   lives and lets live, passes   bets, something moving   but invisibly, and with what clamor   why restrained I cannot fathom   even a ripple. (See the thin flying   of nine black hairs four around one   five the other nipple, flying almost intolerably   on your own breath.) Equivocal, but what we have in common's   bound to be there, whatever we must own   equivalents for, something that maybe I   could bargain with and make a separate peace   beneath within   if never with.