Mist

The glass was thick with winter dust.

I saw a fingerprint, a crust

of something old. I didn't have a rag.

The corners of the frame began to sag—

no, it's just the wire.

I used my thumb. I used the heat

of my own breath to make it meet

the smudge. A little bit of spit

to try and clear the heart of it.

I wiped your eyes. The wetness stayed.

A hazy cloud that will not fade.

I've made you blurry with my touch.

I think I used a bit too much.