Every breath I took today
would come in slowly, stop, and stay.
Every thought I’d like to say
was mostly holy (some risque),
then every wish or might or may
became a glass of Beaujolais:
a drink of sunlight, every ray,
to carry things I always pray.
All the music, by the way:
a treasured gift that I repay
with words I risk and then parlay
into some lines. It’s how I say
that in the calm or fierce melee—
a captive slave or stowaway
or sailor, captain—either way,
I will not stop.
Let come what may.