There is the lovely fug of it, the cloak
to shake and swirl around yourself, disguise
a darker thought and slip into a haze
of otherness. Here’s how my mouth will make
its little nothings into wisps of smoke –
a ring, a ‘no’, a ‘yes’, an ‘oh’, a kiss.
There’s absolutely nothing to express.
Instead we stretch our silence like a lake,
breathe signals over it like children’s boats
that glide across, then wobbling, start to lean.
Ghost boats that put up a flag, then hide,
they never make the crossing from our throats.
Your smoke and mine – our breath, our screen –
Is this enough mist to undress inside?