The Living Air

by Gloria C Dawson

The way the hand’s small arabesque

curls into the dark straits between bodies,

caught up short

by skin’s warm shore, the smell,

elusive, of a dreaming formed

some days ago, found just round the corner

in the bark of white young trees

like the flicker of a flap that you forgot

of an old bed blanket breathing

quick, dust, dust

your dead self out.