In the morning you can listen to the mist. It dies as it burns, little by little, slow by slow.
If you sit still and don’t move your eyes you can see it fleeing.
It runs from the invading sun, hoping, wondering,
Thinking maybe today, maybe this day, even if I don’t win, one of us will.
Their kiss is soft and cool on my skin, and tastes of a color I’ve never seen.
When I first came out I saw the drops of dew and wondered — is this? Will this be?
Then their bodies broke together, melded into ever bigger drops, and I remembered, oh, yes, this is the ocean, just come to play
in the air for a time.