Unseen
Air is the main thing. The selvage
of landscape and the glistens of water
are merely the floor, or some kind of hem,
an edge of what we can’t see.
Now and then clouds form a roof,
a soft ceiling. A cap for the gap.
Open space may rant and rave
invisibly. We feel it, so we are obliged
to name it: Wind.
Why equate visibility
with value? (You, solid in your
purple velvet jacket and heels
may attract attention.
But where would you be
without breath?)
So self-effacing, air, except
in dialogue with the visible,
a sigh among leaves,
a moan at the window,
a draft under the door,
a cough in the face.
A suspension of our
disbelief.
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