O! claustrophobic air―
apparent and busy in the sun.
Dust hangs in waves of spring,
a universe from the bliss of nowhere.
What fallen star, what robin,
what powdered sooth plays a second chance?
Follow flotsam to the horizon,
cross the bridge through gathering cloud.
Inhale motes and flutter-boats―
the balm of dusk explodes a single sigh.
tk/April 2014
