-riding on the wind, or to call upon the wind.

I spent a portion of my morning

listening to an archived recording

of Elizabeth Bishop reading her poems.

the venue was the "92nd Street Y",

New York, on October 10, 1977.

the attendees were well behaved.

reporters weren't clamoring to meet

deadlines, hunched over their frantic typewriters.
nobody's swaying iPhone light above their heads.
no one's screaming toward the set for personal
recognition from Elizabeth Bishop.

her voice is closely amplified, although

her mouth isn't crowding the mic.

she has a frog in her throat, and apologizes

for its persistence.  

I can hear her breathing.

(she asks for water, quietly, as not to disturb the atmosphere.

she pours the water from a bottle into a glass and drinks.

she exhales a hushed "ahhh".) she continues.

Elizabeth Bishop's breathing, and with her breath

ride the words and the lines they reside in;

opening then moving outward,–– like a morning,–– lingering,

then evaporating as I pour another cup.