Lufkinhales (he is [t]his breath), and fervor fills his face; between nowheresy and pre[s[ci]en]tense he treads a thin and sparsim space. “a kiss could be the cover of a quandary if careful, and the quarter of another be the boundary of balefulfillment’stationary standing. return is the rotation less discrete and more demanding.”
Torea turns a triskele. she caresses the crescent-in-circle clasp, and sighs. the vision lights his eyes the night when for the first he gives her gasp (and grins). their skins sweat steam before they dream. his is home: the Hill, the lake. he wakens with a wandering ache and sees she’s stirred not any. this, he thinks in morning light, is how one’s made of many.
so from her he learned the talent called calm, and the weighting that makes moments last. and when they asked him, later, what he’d forgiven to follow the clock, he cleared his throat and he levelled his gaze and he said in a measure no mystic could mock: “there is a lungful of love in my past.”