This is a fact – things that exchange air are branched.
The limbs of trees holding up the hefty weight of the sky
like Atlas. The twisted bronchioles lined with pathogens.
Lattices of people resuscitating each other, in the day,
in the night, at clubs, at the park. Plastic bags lingering
on sidewalks, scooping up winds, pouring them into
our mouths, murmuring – to stay alive, you need to stay
connected. You need someone to catch you when you
faint. To notice your dead body crumpled by the washing
machine before it decays. To shuffle oxygen and carbon
dioxide around like red and black cards, in a casino we
all know we need to leave, but one more, this is it, I can
feel it. This will all be worth it. To go outside is another
exchange. Confrontation of moisture-laden air and
dehydrated girl. Leg hair, sticking out, as if our toes are
eternally perched on the metallic globe of a Van de Graaff
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