Laying flat against the panes of glass
we will dissect our lungs
to know breathing.
We will squabble about who cuts who first and where.
We will get excited to unfold the pink secrets
of the third lobe.
Maybe we'll find evening on the lake or
my missing black sock.
Our blood will remind us of our dads;
what maybe they could have talked about:
wrenches and oil and
"those damn kids, they'll learn one day."
But we won't.
Our veins will smell of cheap booze