This is steady air, and if it had a a color: red.
Red, but not like blood or roses--instead
a sort of bourbon-and-bitters. But just the color
because it is too flat, this air, to be bitter.
A mold fills up, sets, is broken. Sets fold out,
stage, are broken too. The longer the air stays steady
the fuller it becomes until it is hundreds of percent
itself and is in danger of collapsing, until it is
a degree or two warmer than is really comfortable,
until it is condensing on your glasses, until it
is unclean, smoggy.
Flat out and only humming; muffled, or muzzled,
through hairpins and across skipping ponds, and
through the alto pipes of bullfrogs the air might
reverberate, but it is still still, and so thick that the
humming shakes your head with its rhythms, its
beat-tones push-pulling in tense not-quite-unison.
Thirsty: cut stenography tracking, tacking each
stuck symptom with its cryptographic dual.
And still the air is steady, just like before. With a
weight a moments breeze from toppling, or fading
away.
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