1

beyond what I call
my lips
exists an art,
one I pursue without direction.
it reminds me of rain or
well,
just rain.
it reminds me of rain and then of snow
and then of the cigarettes
I've never smoked,
all billowy
and white
with grey streaks that
oscillate.

my lips
exist in the space that is this art's
and I might call it
something
if I found a word.