a hand to look at but not to hold

The rippling furrowed
eyebrow.

It lives on
in colored lashes
that detonate
across the skyline,

we subsist in this
small mug
of disjointed structures
filled to its brim
then
overturned across the land;

we are only at the break of dawn.

Here is one of the few things
that never ceases to
make me swallow
a little more of the breeze,

my stupefaction

and only this
reduces me, every morning
to a reticence
that envelops the

puff

as I exhale.

Even while I lose sight of the
moment, week, season, year
decade, eon;

I will never be met
with an ending,
because every shred
of warmth I pass on
will be, by another,
shaped into sunsets

and hopefully
supernovas.