The sky has parted, giving a warm yolk
of light:

his first tear has fallen.

I see it like melting clouds and
baby blues
that ache to open

their ribbons of
earth lace
tying colors down to the sky, our last
seconds hot enough to

be condensation,
to rain.

Dew

saying he misses me. Of all the
compositions
of air
like syrup
being the blood in the heavens’ veins

it is milk buds
honeycups, butter becoming silk –
of all compositions of air

he is mourning mine.