I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm imbued
in the fabric of things, the way
that wax lost from batik shapes
the pattern where the dye won't take
I make the space around you,
as so allow you shape. And always
you'll feel the traces of that wax
soaked far into the weave:
the air around your gestures,
the silence after you speak.
That's me, that slight wind between
your hand and what you're reaching for,
chair and paper, book or cup:
that close, where I am: between
where breath ends, air starts
