The Whole Expressed in Its Parts

I breathe in the East River’s air. It’s thick with mist and chilled in November. My body is a dam to heat; its reservoir of warmth meets the nor’easter and condensation coats my throat like beads around a glass of gin.

It rains inside my lungs. The drops first cling then slide and fall, collect within a pool of last breath’s rain. They ding the water’s surface, wringing circles expanding outward. Infinite. A model of a galaxy or a yawn radiating around a classroom.

The walls are green. A watermelon seed I inhaled last week took root against my lungs, grew leaves, spread wild like weeds. It drinks the rain and breathes the air that I bring in. It has its own cycle of respiration.

I breathe out. The puddle and lung-soil shake a little. I pause and hold the world in a vacuum as it prays for the next breath; my act of dominion I relive a dozen times a minute.