A special commission looked into
my lungs, crystal chandelier
of swifts, a city, like Lwow, built
around a leaven, ornate organ,
pronounced me sound for study,
body ready as the school’s
for cultivation: conservatory:
greenhouse with breath music starting.
Both were occupied, but my lungs only
pretended to the commons, encompassed
a lovely absence, a space
of thinking over space.
Professor S., famous baritone, deepened one.
Widely-admired, whiskered, one of us,
he threatened to leave when they forbade
my return (Father’s business known)
and sang an acrid aria at the assembly.
The fourteen chambers of my glass house opened
and the bears let me walk around
in my own body, testing its resonance.
He saw in me someone where I saw only
wind. He would teach me to control it.