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Breathing
by Fran Castan

In a sunlit corner, I sit with the dog
and listen to our breathing.
I like to think my breath
goes all the way to her heart, to her tail,
to the park, where she runs it around a tree.
Every breath is borrowed:
all the breaths ever taken, ever to be
taken, are somewhere in this world.
When life seems an inherent unsuccess, failing,
as it does, in the end, at least as we know it,
I push out my belly in this great exchange,
breathe deep
with those who've gone and those to come.

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