I sustain a focused expiration; in it nascent flames chuckle. Having thrown mouth and nose over my left shoulder into a deft, smokeless breath, I come back to blowing before the little dance sags wholly. Old lover, soft and bleary in our flannel sheets upstairs, I will warm these rooms for thee. Breath circulates among elements: cold air off the massed saltwater and the rocks; wooden rooms packaging it elegantly; the hot, wet mystery of my lungs; yours, upstairs; the suckling glow of a young fire. Free circuit of breath voids me, I delaminate from the thickness of my morning. Dragon. We are given breathing, a readymade spiritual practice. Stacked stinking popple steams beside the black box, hot now. You descend.