Frisson

Bustled, late, bags,
seats, jackets, traffic
and rain, tickets, seats,
a wipe off of glasses

Not that it matters, now,
once aimed mouths
cycle into easy polyphony,
the what’s-the-word?
Hairs standing toward,
unbroken, anything but at ease:
my whole body now
intent foothills,
resonant stimuli
to fill a body,
a vessel,
a world with chills
focused to wherever these flights
start, cycle and land.

My eyes aware of everything
and empty, nothing,
of tears,
those tears rolling
down both cheeks.

Unaware of how hard it is to,
the welling of breathe,
of rapture,
of breath, still and rapt,
not bearing to turn
not to left nor to right
not to lose
To lose my everything,
I am nothing,
I am euphoria until the
last note drops,
the hall hushed.