Veil of Glass

I touch —

gently —

the traces of breath

clinging to the veil of glass.

Dreams leak slow,

soft as smoke,

caught in the trembling skin

of their own mystery.

The delicate suspension shivers,

then falls —

a blade of light

splitting the wound.

Beyond gray bone —

sky, tree, shadow —

a black nerve pulses, exposed.

Ghosts scatter

at the sharp edge

of a careful, careful touch.

I awake —

and the mist parts,

just enough

to let the world through.