I could drink the mist
With inward
Passage
Of breath
Cool and wholesome
To the lungs,
An air
Weighted moist
And though
Still vapour
No less fluid
Deeply quenching
Organs
In their need
To thirst.

Are we not
All sponges,
Open pored,
In-fluxed
And anointed?

Are we not
Osmosed
In love?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015