anima

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.