When I am not simple air

When I am not simple air but
buzzing, droplets
collude in my chest, form a cloud
like ten parents preparing for a school board meeting
who have something to yell about when they get there
but are now sitting around a kitchen table
ten times too small.
Scraping at my ribcage with the frightened paws of ten tinygiant panicking hearts.
Gaping into a hole
ten times the size of my mouth,
filling slowly with snow that will melt.
If my hand worked like a Caterpillar's claw
I would excavate each one
and wrap it in burlap
and over the edge of the bridge
one, two, three
four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten.
Instead
my mouth
collects them and masticates, tearing
until they are confetti, waiting to be
exhaled.