All I have to do is exhale,

and my criminal soul

will finally reach the earth.

Tall wooden flowers

with lightbulb heads

attest to the miracle.

Metallic seeds have been

sown here in the clay

of congealed blood,

sonic buzz of a circular flood,

trains veining the skin

of the battered concrete globe,

eye-slits of the immortal arch

that spans the river's theater park

and makes my vertebrae a tuning fork

of pronged ambitious futures.

Lungs light up like bags of gold

cornices and their spoon-curved

corners, shapely in western wind

bright blueprint's gash of blooming zones

from my fetal warming through

to my phantom bones.