To this,

The centre

Of me,



Rising and

Falling is a

Column of breath


That anchors me

In this present.


The constant

Tightness in the

Give and take


Of air. The draw

For oxygen

And the expelling


(For we can't

Keep this either).


Breath is all

And I bind

My thoughts

Before they rise.

I tie them up



That I drop them,

Bound, into a lake,

Or well.


They rise again,

The anchor pulls taut,

And I cast away the thoughts

Of my wandering mind.

David N Rose