simmering

if you were to

                   overlaps

run into the wicks    

                     and on

hollow out the glass

                    and on

rub the sound along



my cheek, always   


 
thrumming

                whispers
                
would it answer           breath



in tongue or in the cheek 

                          falling

stepping back
                        
                into
                
where shards of
        
                mistle 
                       clink down  
or drifting

               through sun
                 
with the panes

                 etched and sweet
    
and forming into 

                 songs along

a ways away

            an arm skimmed
    
    
    
through days and nights and years



             so short