is warm with those still waiting
to be born. They flit past us
like mosquitoes, then scramble—
tenuous as the station
at the far end of the dial.
Bloodless, they’re blood to us all.
By winter they lift upward
slowly, through the grainy peaks
of snowdrifts or a streetlamp’s
conical glow. How small we
must seem then, how countable—
strolling home between headphones,
or desk bound, ballpoints locked in
crosswords or 1099s.
It’s only when we couple
that we too diffuse coolly,
and a voice peels from their whirl-
wind, convinced—if just briefly—
that flesh is not poured out in
small and divisible cups.
As for you—whom we address
now, though you waft through neon,
steam vents, and leaves—remember
this companionless whisper
and not our paired hands, entwined
still as we drift into sleep.
We’ll both wake to so many
believing—if just briefly—
in a world so beautiful
that you could be assembled
from its vaporous remains.