Every Breath

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.