The Archive of Warm Air

In the attic of a closed theater, dust floats like seedlight through rafters, and the last applause still hangs as a warm draft behind the curtain.

I open a window onto noon, city heat breathing up the brick, pigeons threading the blue as if sewing a rip in the sky.

Some days are closets you step into, shoulders brushing old coats of sound; you turn and find summer folded between a program and a glove.

I carry that air downstairs, through doors that click like metronomes, and the street takes it, unbuttons, lets it go as ordinary wind.