I held the first few wisps
of you from weeks ago at
the bottom of shallow lungs,
now breathing daylong,
fugitive and furtive.

You pivoted reflexively,
found all faults through
water-sapped air, lucid
but flecked with dust in
spindles of limpid light.

I feel the wind thin and thicken
as it wavers, confused
from south to west, again,
again, cold then fresh.
I close the windows.

You're bottled now and warm
still, the longer I hold you
in my chest. I practiced
this as a child, when
I first dreamt about you.