Air is the main thing. The selvage
of landscape, the edges of water
are merely the floor, or some kind of hem
for what we can’t see. Now and then
there are clouds for roofing, a soft
ceiling. A cap for the gap.
When open space rants and raves
we need to name it:
Wind. Storm. Trouble.
Why equate visibility
with value? You, so solid in your
purple velvet jacket and heels,
where would you be
without breath?
Air turns shy, except
in dialogue with clouds,
a sigh among leaves,
a moan at the window,
a draft under the door,
a cough in the face.
A suspension of our
disbelief.