︎ 37 / defibrillator
in this quiet, a fluttering, something
like an impulse but softer, hazier
a sense of shape in the distance
just beyond where sight dissolves
we reach for it, carefully at first
not wanting to break the spell of almost
the air itself holding its breath; we find
ourselves indeterminate, taut
there is a strange eloquence to flailing
some fragile note held just out of tune
as limbs twist and grasp at nothing
a child feeling the weight of skin