In Whose Blent Air All Our Compulsions Meet : XII Poem by Alan Gillis

We take the air, it has no surface, it has no depth;
but the air won't cease to put another crease
upon your changing face, in the corner
of your eye. As our cindertrack turns to twitch grass
and the pixel-rich sky thrums, we reach our tree
while an aeroplane cuts the mustard of the sun
in the song-stained air. With mayflies jigging:
this is your life. May bugs buzzing: no real
harm done. Ferns and leaves dancing. And your dress
is burnt sienna, you breathe the shade's perfume;
a wren breaks free, your face lights up—a may-apple
in bloom, or an open book. With shadows twitching:
look, everything's moving. Raw earth turning:
you're not dead yet. The livid air laughing.