Air

By Wesley Houp

The earth has gas.
Tremendous gas.
Like your father’s gas
on cold, dark mornings
in the old Chevy step side
on the way to the farm,
only breathable.
Eventually fathers die.
Dead bodies fill with gas
like old cisterns,
and then become gas
themselves
somewhere down
a river that
springs from a raindrop
that waters a seed
that becomes the tree
that drops a million leaves.
Energy transferred.
The earth is a ball
of once living creatures
at various stages
of becoming this tree.
During hard rains,
karst topography
surges water.
Forgotten dissolution
channels push
gas to the surface.
Watch it bubble
through a gravel lot.
Bubble through
cracks in asphalt.
We breathe the gas
and each breath
returns what is gone
to our bosoms.