Exhale, not the black spirits stuck
under sheets, but denial they were there,
pushing pressure through skin
since the start. Recycling air is never
intentional, but what else can we gulp
besides lust from too long ago to keep
us trying? Yearning for a second wind
to sweep flames higher, doesn’t:
once a vision takes hold, it runs like a fever
despite our best efforts to cure… Inhalation
of a harsher smoke, unfurl as ghosts
crawling through the space between us.
Miles of dust from ground earth filters
through our lungs, settles over respiratory
systems that no longer matter now that we’re
standing at opposite ends of a made-up world.