wb :

Fingertips aching

breath

condenses

on the air warmly

visage.

cracked red dried lips

eyes hanging like boulders

over grey canyons

want-

far

where cold

short air

coils

between our toes

want –

lean,

and breathe

and breathe

the blue foreign frost

for in warmth,

for in cold

the great parched floor

of stillness,

the lines fidget

curling their brows

clicking joints

Revolve

great circle –

small circle

the weariness

of wakefulness