I hold my breath and run
and the tighter I hold  
the faster I go
or I paint the wind
across an auroch’s back
and around its horns
with one interminable stroke
The exhale is arrival or awe
unless you have a flute
then it’s announcement
of where you’ve been

Inhale is energy
and the beginning of dance
which is music
which are sounds running together
until they drop to the dirt

I must keep busy  
else I’ll sleep
away the days  
in the awe of the dirt.


Tom Holmes is the editor of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics and the author of six collections of poetry. His writings about wine, poetry book reviews, and poetry can be found at his blog, The Line Break:

For the last two or so years and 108 or so pages of poems, I’ve been investigating Paelolithic art, artists, people, and culture. This poem is one of those investigations. In addition, while I say, “You can’t find me in my poems,” in this one you can . . . maybe. On one level, this poem is about my long history of learning how to breathe.