It is the faintest of kisses,
a lip smack blown from a palm,
a breath behind a mask.
This flavor that lingers
between the burdens of breath and
sky, this tremble laid in
the loamy bed beneath
the heart, this stirring
in the earth, blind root and
subtle fungi casting a line,
setting the spell, the shine of
the moon, the glow of the horizon
full of the runaway sun.
It is the mirror gray with breath,
the tincture of seeing and self.
This kiss of wings filling,
the press of the atmosphere blue
boned before the weight of evidence
fills the glass, eyes fixed upon
the eyes reflected, at once
the birds burst forth
wings tearing through heaven.