s-emi-colon:

We breathe rosebushes,
saltwater,
a baptismal fount, and the
wounds are exhales.

Throats itch with
feathers ripped off the
wings of last May’s
wind.

Inhale sparrows.
Yesterday’s oxygen
is stale and yellowing.

I do not need to comment on this one. Notice the expressions and the unison of the feelings it conveys.

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