Speech whiffs of you and your air, its pocket in spice and near vanilla, from viburnum leaves matte with jealousy, Cinnamomum bark, orchid pod. I thought I smelled you in Inverness and I was the primeval stomach behind the new one when it smells real blood through new sepal swaddles.
        I was a bubble  escaping between  grouper scales and learning fast gravity, each cell choking with the jade brown of dirty seas or confusions of sight.
            When a mote is interrupted in love it shrinks heavy until it cannot be seen and itself goes blind: forgets, in the absence of visual. Its eyes reseed and this time I will not interrupt. I will buoy it so that I can watch something already so pure grin into the white-spackled spark, consummated.