so black you cannot see the stars
-- are there stars? --
so still the gnats are too awed to fly.
You blow a thousand bubbles, shot
through the silence-carved brick work,
No wind will break the circles
that float to worlds beyond far suns,
for as you hold your breath,
there is no wind.
One, two, three, six,
a million bubbles, little moons
bouncing off the black tree limbs
that can only be seen when they move to speak.
They do not speak,
thick and warm as melted chocolate,
full of bubbles chanting, singing.
You breathe carelessly,
dare them to burst, dare them to stay.
They spin away.