A couple times a day
I am transparent—

You can see right through me:
the bright prismatic
phone screen
will do that to you. 

But I’m breathing.

And looking up
at the sky
between the trees
and wondering

how such forms
can be built
by light.

Chains of carbon,
struck and hollowed
of their oxygen—

I follow the branches,
twisting,
reaching down—
splitting
and splitting—
       like lightning;
the flash
and the afterimage
of
 dark 
      empty splinters—

            the bronchiole 

space

                       in lungs.