Tweed sky over northern isles. the tender cold silts down:

Prized collectible if one’s a connoisseur, a taster of air.

Remember water-weighted atmospheres?

Algae-green, bruise-yellow, Varanasi’s sweating ginger smoke.

Breezes off the Carolina beaches

sweep across paving

miles from water:

Food Lion parking lot strung with flapping plastic flags,

Buy a crate of berries, quart of milk, tendrils by the dozen of savory salt air.

Dogs who hang their heads out windows ride

with ears flying, tongue hanging, eyes watering.

They too are connoisseurs of air.

Bare feet, also, know what’s slowly

swimming past, weaving through the summer grass.

Winds are christened: Ostro, Sirocco, Mistral, Levante.

Dry insistent gales that carry freight of sand: far-flung Saharan grit

to grind between the teeth, dig from ears and hair.

Yet air itself, drunk straight, is soft, subtle, changeable;

can surely break a heart.

Who could manage more than brandy sips

of potent deliquescent air?