It’s hard to catch your breath
when your breath is not yours at all
but rather, breathed into anew
ad infinitum
nostrils inflated
spun into nothingness
by G-d’s gyroscopic pottery wheel

Like little stick figures
with little speech bubbles
hoping one day their letters
will reach beyond the page and land atop His open palm

And I pray
these inkish legs will carry me
one rung up this ladder of lined paper